Gideon grinned. “There’s a diabolical side to you, isn’t there, Cyrus?”
“Like I said, I’m only human.”
“I know you don’t have a car, but do you have a driver’s license?”
“No.”
“No?” Gideon said in disbelief. “But you have driven before, right?”
“Never.”
“Never?! Then how the hell do you think we’re going to pull this off?”
“Don’t worry,” Cyrus said confidently. “I’m an excellent driver. A regular Mario Andretti.”
“Who?”
“Way back before you…we, were born, he was one of only two drivers to win races in Formula 1, IndyCar, World Sportscar Championship, and NASCAR. One of the greatest drivers of all time.”
“Like you,” Gideon mocked. “A guy who has never even sat in a driver’s seat.”
“I’m probably a little better, actually,” Cyrus stated without a hint of either bravado or jest.
Indeed, he was neither joking nor boasting. Because of all the knowledge and experience he had come to through the six degrees of separation, he had absorbed not only the expertise of the best car racers in the world, but also that of stunt drivers, and highly trained CIA, FBI, and other intelligence operatives.
Gideon said, “Just tell me that you are at least as good a driver as you are nuts.”
“I’m an insanely good driver,” Cyrus replied with a smile.
“Okay,” Gideon sighed. “Now, security is still gonna want to check us out when we arrive, so unless you know some Jedi warrior mind tricks, we got a problem.” Gideon paused. “Do you?”
“No.”
“You’re useless.”
“But I have something even better…maybe.”
“What?”
“A distraction.”
Gideon squinted. “What kind of distraction?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a secret.”
“A secret distraction? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’ll see.”
“But I don’t want to see. I want to know. Now.”
“I have to work out the details.”
“Not good enough, Cyrus.”
“It’ll have to be, unless you have a better idea. Do you?”
“You call that an idea?”
“Do you?” Cyrus repeated.
“No,” Gideon growled.
“Okay, then. Leave it to me.”
Gideon ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “This is the worst planned mission ever! Really, it’s embarrassing.”
“Mission implausible,” Cyrus cracked.
Gideon groaned. “Suicidal is more like it.”
13
Role Call
The recruits stood outside the yeshiva awaiting their orders. They had just come from a session of restorative deep prayer and meditation. Prior to that, the team completed their final training, a grueling twenty-four hour contest intended to make sure that the recruits were well acquainted with their new uniforms and weapons.
Volk and Sett exited the yeshiva, followed by Grace. We were all wearing the new uniforms, even Grace.
“Angel Ophion,” Sett commanded.
Lieutenant Ophion snapped to attention. “Sir!”
“You lead the prayer.”
“Yes, Sir.” He turned and faced the group. “Aleinu leshabei’ach!” he boomed.
In unison the angels recited the holy prayer, and unlike the first time five days earlier, the new angels ended the entreaty to HaShem with a resounding, “Amen!”
Captain Volk stepped forward and the angels fell into a straight line in front of him. “Shortly,” he said, “we will head over to the Academy and to the disgronifiers.”
Missing the opportunity to whirl down to Earth, the angels let out a collective groan of disappointment. We had practiced whirling many times, and they had fallen in love with the experience.
Volk raised a silencing hand. “If we succeed, there will be plenty of whirling ahead. If we fail, then we have no one to blame but ourselves.
“Now,” he continued, “I don’t need to remind you how important this mission is. In the annals of our history there has not been a more crucial moment. Not even the Civil War compares to the gravity of what we are about to undertake. Gentlemen, today you will be all that stands between Heaven and Earth, between good and evil, and between life and oblivion.
“For almost a week now you have been training like you never trained before. You haven’t slept, and you haven’t eaten. You know now that you are truly angels of God. Whatever you did or didn’t do as Academy cupids is no longer consequential. You have shed tears of repentance, and cried out to God in Heaven above. You have seen the errors in your ways, and now possess a clarity of mind and spirit not known to you since your creation.”
Volk paced before his soldiers, his eyes on a distant horizon only he could see.
“Today,” he further exhorted, “we will descend to Earth on a mission the like of which no cupid angels before us has ever attempted. Until now, you have made matches and battled with yetzers in the hope of bringing two humans together. It was a job to you and little more. You won some, you lost some, and once you returned to base, you quickly forgot about them.
“Today’s battle will never be forgotten. It will go down in the chronicles of angelic history as the day of days, the battle of battles, and the victory of victories. But only if we write the history books. Only if we survive to tell the story. If we fail, today and every future day will be written in the black ink of total darkness and chaos.
“Now,” Volk continued, “we have gone over the layout of the compound, and each of you understands your objectives. But trust me, Hamanaeus has been working on plans of his own. We don’t know what we will be facing once we arrive. Everything we have planned for could go out the window in a second. Regardless, you must rely on your skills, one another, and, may it be His will, the mercy and strong hand of the Master of Legions.” He paused and nodded to Commander Sett to take over.
“Lieutenant Ophion!” Sett barked.
The bull-like lieutenant stepped forward and saluted. “Sir!”
“There have been some changes. You are no longer working with the SWAT unit.”
“Sir?” the Lieutenant said, bewildered. The eye above his red battle scar twitched in consternation.
“Captain Abishai and I are putting you in charge of Private Typhon, and cadets Aries and Troy. The four of you are your own squad.”
“Yes, Sir!” Ophion answered, relieved that he had not done anything wrong.
“Your first objective is to secure the weapons cache that Captain Volk and I will inform you of shortly, and then to protect the perimeter. Once all hell breaks out, you and the cadets must do all you can to ensure that Anteros backup hiding-in-waiting don’t get through. And that includes yetzers.”
“How many yetzers are you expecting?” Private Typhon asked.
“There could be twenty or more.”
“Twenty!” Cadet Ares exclaimed. “Against only four of us spread so thinly?”
“That’s right, Cadet. You fellas are in for the fight of your lives.”
“Yes, Sir!” Typhon said.
Cadet Troy cleared his throat. “Um, Commander Sett, Sir, any suggestions how to proceed?”
“Considering you will also be outnumbered fifty to one by Anteros soldiers, I advise that you had better get to the weapon cache damn fast.”
“And if the weapons aren’t there?” Ophion said.
“That’s my job, Lieutenant,” Volk said. “They’ll be there.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Volk continued. “Captain Abishai will head the rest of you SWAT guys as before. Your top priority is to secure the main compound, and to protect the judges.”
Abishai’s number two in command, the usually calm and reserved red-bearded Sergeant Major Balius said, “But why both
er protecting those treasonous weasels, Captain? It’s because of them that we are in this mess. Why not let them fend for themselves and suffer the consequences of their actions?”
Abishai answered, “Because those scumbags are still one of us. If we survive this mission, and Heaven is still in our hands, they will face trial. That said, should any of them actively interfere and put any of us in danger, or otherwise seek to sabotage our mission, those individuals are not to be granted the courtesy of our safety. Got it?”
“Yes, Sir,” Balius said.
“Captain Volk,” Virgil said. “What about me and Kohai? What are our objectives?”
“Your mission is to whirl back to Heaven—”
“But, Captain!” I protested. “Our place is fighting at your side!”
“To Heaven,” he reiterated. “The Anteros soldiers there will not be suspecting anyone coming from behind. They don’t know we don’t need the disgronifiers to travel. The only one standing between them and the Academy will be Grace.”
I lowered my eyes in shame. Of course we couldn’t just abandon Grace to those savages. Furthermore, I shouldn’t have challenged the captain in front of the others. Would I never learn?!
“You are to proceed to Heaven, join up with Grace, and wipe out Anteros,” he said. “Am I clear?”
“Crystal, Sir!”
“And remember, the Anteros forces that enter through the disgronifiers won’t be the only enemy you will face. We have Anteros cells that have been waiting for this day for a very long time. According to Grace’s intel, you could be facing an entire battalion.”
“Anteros cells?” Virgil said. “You mean our own guys?”
“That’s right,” Volk said. “Collaborators and traitors.”
“Kohai, Virgil,” Sett said gravely. “Extreme prejudice, got that?”
I nodded and said, “So, between the three hundred Anteros commandos we have to transport up as dictated by the Solow Accords, plus the suspected terrorist cells, we’re talking maybe five hundred soldiers or more?”
“Could be,” Volk said.
“Surely our cupids, those who aren’t traitors, will react if the Anteros soldiers start opening fire on Heaven.”
“Many will,” Sett said. “But most of them will likely be mowed down before they realize what is going on.”
“And we can’t warn them?” Virgil asked.
Grace stepped forward.
Man, I thought, there’s something about a celestial in uniform! I thought that I had grown accustomed to gazing upon her beauty, but between the sexiness of her in uniform and the glow of her reawakened angelic soul, Grace looked more radiant than ever. The modulating camouflage in her uniform heightened the brilliance of her sparkling, silver eyes and lustrous, argent hair, which she wore tied in a ponytail behind her.
Grace said, “We can’t warn them without giving ourselves away. It’s regrettable, but we have no choice. That said, I approached Judge Minos with an idea that may save a lot of lives. I suggested to him that we greet the Anteros ‘emissaries’ in our ceremonial uniforms, and that all cupids dress accordingly, regardless of rank, even if they are not involved with the official greeting party. Minos thought it a splendid idea. Hera, my secretary, will broadcast the order shortly. Furthermore, although our intel on the Anteros cells and those involved is poor, we do have a vague indication of where some of the cells are, and who might be involved. Hera’s broadcast will ‘accidentally’ overlook those areas and cupids.”
“So, those cupids not dressed in ceremonial garb are likely Anteros,” Virgil said.
“That’s the idea, Cadet, yes.”
“Brilliant, Grace,” I lauded. “Not only that, those traitorous cupids who are in on the plot, they aren’t going to want to wear those uniforms because they aren’t made for fighting.”
“We are counting on that, yes, Kohai. But don’t assume that just because someone is dressed for a ball that they are on your side.”
“No, Ma’am.”
“Commander,” asked Abishai’s number three man, Corporal Orion, “what are your and Captain Volk’s objectives?”
“First,” Sett answered, “we have to seek out and destroy Hermes’ spleen guns. He left here with both his plans and his handheld prototypes. There is no telling how many they have been able to manufacture, but our best estimate is that Anteros may possess as many as ten. If Hamanaeus unleashes those demonic weapons on us, we are finished. After that, our job is to kill as many Anteros bastards and yetzers we can, and, as for me, to rip Hamanaeus’s Adam’s apple from his throat. Is that objective enough for you, Corporal?”
Orion saluted, a big hairy grin on his face. “Yes, Sir!” he belted.
I said, “Just curious, Sirs, but how are you going to locate the spleen guns?”
“We use our noses,” Volk said. “Spleen demon venom is particularly acrid, even in the dissolved form Hermes devised. We’ll know who is carrying such a gun. Our senses are more highly tuned than those of the Anteros soldiers. Remember when we were at their base? The Anteros soldiers were so accustomed to the rank smell of the yetzers, the stench no longer bothered them. But for us, their putrid stink burned our nostrils. Do you have a better idea, Cadet Kohai?”
“No, Sir, though it seems to me that they won’t want to be using the spleen guns at close range, especially if things break out into a full-on melee. The first to fire them will likely be snipers, and they will be at a distance beyond your noses.”
Sett and Volk exchanged stumped looks. “Dammit, Volk,” Sett said. “The kid is right.”
14
Two Degrees of Detonation
Malkah Stern heard the signal of one beep of a car horn, followed by two quick beeps. She rushed out into the pre-dawn night to the back of Rainbow Catering and greeted the two incoming vans.
“You’re late,” Malkah scolded Gideon in a roaring whisper. “Jean was just about to call the van owners and ask if anything was wrong. She’s wound tighter than a coil.”
“We ran into a little snag while disposing of the bodies,” Gideon said, remaining in the van.
“You killed them?”
“Who’s the wound up one?” Gideon said. “Relax. They are resting comfortably in a little out of the way place that I previously secured. I have some very quiet contacts who don’t ask me questions when I call in favors.”
“Did the drivers see you? Could they identify you?”
“Malkah, they were hardly the first people I’ve hijacked and kidnapped.”
“What about Cyrus? He doesn’t have your training.”
“Maybe not, but I sure wouldn’t have known that by watching him. He’s a pro.”
“Really?”
“Thanks to Cyrus, the guys babysitting them will probably end up with a raise and a promotion.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Mysterious fellow that Cyrus.”
Tell me about it. “Okay, stay here. Someone will load the van while I handle the paperwork with you. I just hope Jean doesn’t come out.”
“We’re already on that.” Gideon nodded towards the van parked beside him. Malkah saw Cyrus inside talking on a cell phone. Cyrus waved hello.
“Is he talking to Jean right now?” Malkah asked, perplexed.
“Yeah. Cyrus is Alexander Rosso’s private secretary, Anne Cummings. Isn’t he cute? He’s just checking to make sure that everything is fine. Mr. Rosso is very particular, don’t you know? And Ms. Cummings, well, she can be very long-winded and persnickety.” He winked.
“But he must sound ridiculous! Does this Ms. Cummings happen to have a bad cold or something?”
“Actually, according to Cyrus, Anne Cummings has a British accent, Oxford, to be more precise, and her voice is quite sweet and silky.”
“Then how…?”
Gideon shrugged and gave Malkah a do-you-really-need-to-ask look. “He’s Cyrus,” Gideon explained.
“Right,” she said, creeped out by the image of someone as macho as Cyrus sp
eaking in a woman’s voice. “Okay, I’ll do my best to hustle everything up.” She glanced behind her and saw that the first racks of food were rolling out. Malkah leaned in and gave Gideon a quick peck on the cheek. “Be careful.”
“You too. And I mean that. You leave everything to us. You just be a good little caterer and keep a low profile. Got it, soldier?”
Malkah saluted. “Yes, Sir, Captain Worrywart.” She smiled and dashed off.
Cyrus was still on the phone with Rainbow Catering’s Jean Palmieri as he and Gideon pulled out into the early morning darkness, the last flickering stars readying to call it a night. Once they were on their way, ‘Anne Cummings’ brought the conversation to a quick end. ‘She’ thanked Jean kindly and promised her that should things go as well as ‘Anne Cummings’ was sure they would, Ms. Palmieri could count on a great deal of future business from various influential individuals, companies, and organizations who value Mr. Rosso’s recommendations.
When Gideon and Cyrus had hijacked the vehicles and stashed away the drivers, they also had the presence of mind to snatch the drivers’ cell phones, both of which Cyrus had placed on the seat next him, just in case. About the time they left the city limits and were on the open highway that would take them to the Rosso estate, they received a phone call from Margo Blythe, owner of the catering company from whom Jean Palmieri had outsourced the two vans they were driving.
Cyrus picked up the cell phone of Abdul Raqib, whose name translated as ‘Slave of the Vigilant,’ a Saudi national who was studying engineering at the local university. Because of Cyrus’s six degrees of separation, he knew that for the past nine months Mr. Raqib had been working part-time for Margo Blythe’s catering business. Abdul was a spirited young man from a wealthy family with string-pulling connections in the NPF State Department.
Ms. Blythe, a pudgy, forty-three-year-old divorcee, hired him because she had a thing for swarthy, good-looking Middle Eastern types. She had converted to Islam about three years earlier, shortly after her divorce. Six months later she opened her catering business with some of the money she had received in the eight-figure divorce settlement.
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