Felon looked back to Travers’ file. Passport had delivered it and a notarized document for the 3 million dollar cash deposit in the assassin’s account. A quick call to the bank confirmed it. The file saved him having to do the backgrounder himself and he was short of time. Using the Demon’s research presented some risks, but the Baron had a legion of Demon soldiers he commanded if he wanted Felon out of the way. There was no need for the ruse.
Just before three-thirty, the assassin watched a bus pull up to the curb across the street about seventy-five yards south of him. That was her bus. She’d be on it at six. A figure bundled in a wine-colored trench coat got out and walked along the block toward the Travers’ condo. As he watched, Felon struggled with his suspicions. He didn’t want to trust Balg and hated more the fact that by proxy he had put his faith in a Fallen. But the money was delivered. And they knew who they were dealing with.
Felon looked away when he realized the approaching figure was a woman. He’d found that women could sense a stare. He had no scientific proof, but they seemed to know when someone’s full attention was on them. Even if he was well hidden women could tell when they were being watched.
Men were easier to surprise. For the majority, if they had no reason to suspect a trap, it didn’t enter their minds. Probably had something to do with the fact that men were not preyed on as often. So for women, the assassin had cultivated the sideways glance. He watched as she hurried against the gusting wind and rain with one hand holding the brim of her dark fedora and the other clenching a briefcase to her chest. The woman glanced at the car, looked away and glanced again. Felon dropped further down in his seat when she got close. The Angel would be attuned to living things. Might even scan the street through other eyes. The assassin had parked far enough away, but he knew too much about Angels to take any extra risk. The woman relaxed her grip on the brim of her hat as she walked past Travers’ home.
Felon made a mental note to park farther from the bus stop next time. He took a deep breath and let his mind shift back to the hunt. The hit had to be fast. An Angel took about a second to shift to his immortal form, and the only way to delay that was with heavy damage. High-powered handguns would be best. Automatics, so he could chew a big hole quick.
Felon felt adrenaline rush through him as he inventoried his armament. He would have his .9 mm in one armpit, and the .44 magnum in a handmade holster across his belly—three speed-loaders for that. He’d sling his Derringer in a holster between his shoulder blades. He’d stick a .38 revolver in his right boot and a 12-inch bayonet in his left. He counted extra clips and speed-loaders for all the guns. Beneath his black suit and overcoat he would wear lightweight Kevlar body armor and padding. All he needed was that second delay.
He started the car and pulled away from the curb. He’d drive a big loop and park farther down so he could watch Travers when she got off work at five. Balg’s file showed her off tomorrow, which would be a good time for her Angel boyfriend to stop by for some earthly delights.
Felon would kill everything in the house.
29 - Ardor
He sensed the commotion too late to do anything about it. He couldn’t move as quickly as the unleashed Powers, so he knew he’d never make it back to the hideout in time. The City of Light’s transit system was overcrowded and prone to delay, and it was at such times that he regretted his disinterest in automobiles. They were expensive and wasteful and they’d done irreparable damage to the planet, but they would come in handy during moments of crisis. Especially when it concerned Dawn’s safety.
He growled impatiently and swore at passing taxis, and then paced at each subway station, running between transfer points—only to see the time saved consumed by dawdling travelers and delays at stops. Most of his cavalry charge was set to the music of silent cursing.
Mr. Jay ran the last few blocks to the hideout. He charged into the building, heedless of the danger signs he smelled everywhere. If something happened to Dawn he’d burn the City!
A shudder ran through him at the top of the stairs. Bullets and violence pockmarked the wall opposite the hideout door. Dull light shone through holes around the doorframe. Holding his walking stick like a club, he vaulted up the last steps and leapt over the ruins in the doorway.
One quick look showed him that the gunfire had come from inside the room—still not good but better. He studied the scattered debris. Bullet casings clinked underfoot. He took a deep breath and knelt at Dawn’s cubbyhole. The door was open. He thrust his head into it. A light perfume of candy and children’s soaps momentarily raised his hopes and brought tears to his eyes.
Dawn was gone.
His fingers closed in the soft material of her quilt. He dragged it out and clutched it to his chest as he surveyed the damage. The shattered remains of a pink plastic teapot wrung his heart.
The Powers had entered. He looked around the collected dust and detritus on the floor. And more little ones! He stooped to study small footprints that displayed in bits and pieces from beneath the clutter of wreckage. That should be good. Should be because forever children were unique creatures in his experience. He had no idea what a group of them would do. But they weren’t known for violence against each other. If there were murderous elements among them, their anger was usually directed at the adult population.
But Dawn wasn’t like them—forever children in a city like this. They were toughened by a life on the run. He studied the shell casings: all of them from small caliber weapons fire. So the kids had the guns. Good. He couldn’t resist a small grin. That’s a topsy-turvy statement for a topsy-turvy world. Their small bodies couldn’t counterbalance big weapons.
He turned his attention to the violence at the door. Under powdered plaster and splintered wood, he saw faint outlines, stains of spilled fluids. And then his spirits fell. He recognized the pattern: Ardor, the blood of Demonkind or Fallen. A sudden wave of panic shook him, threatened to sweep him away. Dawn!
The chances of forever children repelling an attack by Demons were small, and now that he had identified the Ardor, he sniffed the air for its potency. There was always residue—always a hint to the amount that had been spilled. The kids must have been well armed to spill so much. He kept the quilt clutched to his chest and picked up his chair from the pile of wreckage. He sat on it.
Neither Demons nor Fallen liked to have their blood spilled, especially by mortal means. If that was the case, the attackers either had a powerful personal motivation or they were being compelled by great force. It had to be the Prime. He remembered his vision of the pentangle.
He sniffed the air, but caught no hint of human blood. He opened himself—no some there and there, only drops. Flesh wounds perhaps, nothing more. That was good.
He shook off a wave of despair and got to his feet. There was no telling where to start looking if Dawn was in the hands of Demons—and Fallen were no better. Anxiety lashed him until he pushed the thoughts of Dawn’s capture aside.
The small amount of human blood suggested the forever children had survived the battle. If they were lucky, they might have had some Powers of their own, and managed to spirit Dawn away. And if they had failed to defend her they were either on her trail or would have information that he could use to get her back. He had to get her back.
Mr. Jay surveyed the room and then set about collecting unopened cans of food and other undamaged supplies he’d need on the hunt. These he put into his pack onto the neatly folded shape of Dawn’s quilt.
30 – Human Error
Stoneworthy drove onto Towerview Avenue with about twenty minutes to spare. The greasy rain smeared the windshield with each stroke of the tattered wipers and forced him to slow. Able was never a man to worry about the little things in life: that guaranteed his apartment was out of coffee, his nose hairs needed trimming and his car was in need of new windshield wipers for over a year. The details were overshadowed by the larger spiritual matters that usually consumed his waking life. There was an occasion where he wore onl
y one sock to the office. When Karen asked him about it, he explained that it was the only clean one he could find.
But when a man actually meets an Angel his perspective changes. The little things will never look the same again. Of course he had to be sure he didn’t expect too much from others who hadn’t shared the experience. They were allowed to doubt. That was why he was reluctant to tell Karen that the Angel was expecting them—such a thing sounded ridiculous. And she already had too much on her plate.
But he knew an Angel expected them at eleven-thirty and he was terrified that he’d be late. It sounded unbelievable to him and he’d actually looked an Angel in the face. He didn’t want to push his luck with too much talk of the visitation. She’d come this far on his word alone and he valued the trust.
He knew he should talk to Karen about what was bothering her, but this wasn’t the right time for it. He wasn’t focused, and while her problems warranted attention, his mission took precedence this once. They needed to find the right time to talk. He was very worried about her.
But he couldn’t stop thinking how thrilled he was that the Angel had chosen him. His work on Archangel Tower had made him a minor celebrity among the City of Light’s populace, but for such a thing to gain him the trust of an Angel? What was he to God’s Firstborn children? A handful of clay—a pinch pot with eyes.
He hoped his humility would be enough to gain the trust of the Divine sinner. And that was the approach he’d decided to take. Sin is sin, and we’re all God’s children. Who better to guide one out of the wilderness than another who was lost?
He coughed, and then politely waved at the accumulating smoke. Poor Karen had been chain smoking for the entire drive and had only opened her window a crack. The environmental disaster she created was beginning to wear on the minister’s patience—especially when he watched her use the lit end of the last cigarette to ignite the next.
Stoneworthy realized he was being selfish. Karen looked horrible. Worse than she did the day before. It was obvious that his words of caution had fallen on deaf ears. Looking at her now, it was as though she had found a way to multiply the actions that resulted in her deathlike pallor and overall sickly appearance.
He rolled down his window all the way. His left shoulder was already quite damp. The minister leaned in toward her about to speak—but her appearance silenced him again. It was more than nervousness that made her face so severe. Then he realized what might be the cause. He cleared his throat quietly and glanced over.
She looked at him, her eyes trying to express something that was transformed into another puff of smoke. She looked away. He repeated the noise, louder—snuffling on the stuffy air. She gave a quick look at him, almost desperate, then turned. Slowly, her eyes came back to him.
“Is it the mission?” Stoneworthy asked finally.
“What mission?” Cawood’s look was genuinely bewildered.
“This! This mission, Karen.”
“Oh. What about it?” She threw her cigarette butt out the window, and dug into her pack for another.
“Is this mission bothering you?” He smiled warmly, turned back to the road. “It is unusual.”
“Oh. No, Able.” She smiled when he looked at her. “I haven’t given it much thought.”
“You haven’t given it…” His fingers gripped the steering wheel. He hurried to hide his alarm.
“Well. No. I mean, I’ve thought about it.” She touched his forearm.
“Because I would think, Karen.” Stoneworthy searched for understanding. “I was going to say that our mission. It’s okay if you’re nervous about the Angel. I’m nervous too.”
“Actually, I’m looking forward to the diversion.” Her voice fell flat.
“A diversion from what?” Stoneworthy couldn’t hide his chagrin. “You need to talk to me.” Karen turned away to light a cigarette, he grabbed the lighter from her hand.
They shared an intense, almost angry look before his heart fluttered at her obvious pain. He gave the lighter back.
“I’m sorry. Please, just open the window farther—please—if you’re going to smoke the whole pack now.” He tried to smile at her, saw her features waxy and indistinct. “Look…” He took the lighter and lit the cigarette that dangled lifelessly from her lips. “Let’s not get sidetracked. I want you to talk to me about what’s bothering you.”
“Able, I was going to call you last night,” she started, her cigarette flared.
“What for?”
“Oh, to talk about this mission and things,” she said, smiling weakly. “Do you think we do any good?”
“Good” His eyebrows lifted. “What? Why of course!”
“Really?” She watched the smoke curl off her cigarette. “Sometimes I’m not sure we can help, with the Change.”
“The unknown is nothing new. We can help people with that, Karen.” Stoneworthy slowed the car, turned to watch his friend as long as he could. A glance at his watch told him there was no time for this.
“I just.” She studied the dashboard, eyes blank. “Do you think there’s forgiveness for all of us? Can it, can we, as humans forgive everything?”
“Oh. You mean with our mission today? I contemplated the very thing.” He nodded absently. “Righteousness, the word of God in us, gives us the right to forgive, and the duty to do so.”
“Yes, today, but for everything, too?” She looked at him thoughtfully. “For anything…”
“If you’re concerned about this Angel’s sin.” Stoneworthy smirked. “That we will have to determine. But, a sin is a sin, in the eyes of the Lord. We are bound to forgive in His name.” Then he smiled. “And a man of good conscience will always offer the hand of forgiveness. It is the key to repentance. We must.”
“So you’d…so we have to forgive everything, every sin?” Her eyes were pleading.
“Of course, Karen.” Stoneworthy pulled up to a stoplight. “It is not always easy to do. The sin could be abhorrent. Could run contrary to what we believe—may even repulse us. But everyone gets a chance to repent. Everyone deserves forgiveness.”
She nodded quietly to herself, and puffed her cigarette.
“That doesn’t mean we have to like the sinner,” he added, starting ahead when the lights changed. “We are obligated to love our fellow man, but we needn’t like him.” Stoneworthy stared at her until she turned. “Why so much doubt, my friend. Is there something you wish to tell me?”
He’d said, it. He opened the door to her.
“Oh, it’s just the mission,” she said with a weak grin. “I suppose I doubt the reality of Angels…”
“Don’t doubt yourself because of it,” he laughed, eyes penetrating. “Believe me, I want you along because I am also not beyond doubt. I am aware that people must roll their eyes at me. Don’t let my story cause you to doubt. I hope it will reaffirm both of our faiths. And I want you here to hold me up in this.”
“Yeah.” She sat silently watching the condominiums pass.
Stoneworthy turned his attention to the road. The buildings were all alike—and finding the address would require his full attention. He had been told that the Angel was expecting him at 232 Towerview Terrace. His heart raced. The minister was suddenly gladdened by Karen’s introspective nature. That’s what made them work so well together. She asked the questions he sometimes forgot to ask himself—and it made him feel competent for what lay ahead. He glanced at her smiling.
She caught his gaze and looked away. Stoneworthy was glad he wasn’t alone. Karen distracted him from his own doubt.
“There it is.” He pointed to the brass numbers on brick and then started looking along the curb for a place to park. “Okay, there we are.” Stoneworthy glanced at his friend’s face as he pulled in behind a pickup truck. Her face had paled again, accented with distinct redness about her ears. “Karen, are you going to be all right?”
“Yes.” She nodded dully, conjured up a weak smile. “I’m sorry. But we should talk later.” She reached a hand over and pa
tted Able’s. “I’m sorry for talking like this right now...this is more important.”
“Karen, talk to me anytime about anything.” This time he couldn’t hold it in. His eyes watered as he continued, “You’re my friend. And if you have a problem we’ll get through it.” He patted her hand in return. “Regarding this mission. I have faith in you and need of you. We can do this.” Stoneworthy held her gaze. “Regarding all other things. I have faith in you.”
“What…” she started and let it go. Her eyes ran over his face, studying, searching. Then she smiled. “Yeah,” she said, as she pushed her door open, “Thank you.”
Stoneworthy climbed out, a leather-bound bible under his arm. Karen waited for him on the sidewalk. Again, her face was awash with emotion. This time she grabbed his forearm and drew him close.
“You…so we’re actually going into that house, and talking to an Angel!”
Able looked at her, then laughed. “Oh, Karen!” He threw his arms around her. “I haven’t lost my mind.” The minister kissed her cool cheek. “Not yet, anyway. But I understand your doubts. I have them myself. Revelation is difficult to share.” He clasped her fingers. “But come with me now and you will witness something that will get you through all that is to come.”
Karen hesitated, fingers playing at her lips.
“After this,” he said, “we’ll talk. I know what’s really bothering you.”
She smiled weakly, somewhat puzzled, as he led her by the hand toward to the stair.
The door opened when they reached the third step. A man pushed his way out, leaning heavily on the doorframe. His face was haggard, his features ringed with strange vaporous smoke. The man’s dark eyes were wild with rage or realization as they turned to the minister. One of his muscular shoulders was seeping blood. He snarled, the gun in his right hand whipped up.
The Forsaken - The Apocalypse Trilogy: Book Two Page 16