The Angel took the stairs at an effortless jog—it was her policy to get her exercise in everyday activities rather than waste time at a gym—worrying about her subordinate as she went up the five flights.
Norwood was brash—he’d hung her with the nickname of She Who Must Be Obeyed—borderline insubordinate, far too stubborn, and all too unwilling to ask for help. The Angel had grown up in the South, and she knew the difficulties a strong, intelligent black man trying to make a place for himself in the world had even today, so she was willing to cut him some slack. She allowed him his stubbornness and petty rebelliousness. In a sense Norwood reminded him of her husband. Loving and living with Billy Ray for a decade, she’d experienced many manifestations of both those traits over the years. She didn’t, and never could, have children and although Norwood was only a few years younger than she, the Angel felt motherly toward him. Or at least big-sisterly.
She reached his floor, still breathing easily after her upstairs jog, went down the hall, and stood before his door. She raised a hand to knock, but something stopped her.
A feeling ran down her spine like the tickling of spider legs skittering on bare skin. The wild card virus hadn’t given her precognition, but the decade she’d spent as a SCARE agent beside Ray had honed her senses to an almost supernatural sharpness. It had also taught her to trust her instincts, which now were whispering urgent warnings in her ears.
She paused at the door and listened. Initially it was quiet inside, but there came a brief murmur of low voices and then again silence. She frowned, staring at the hotel-room door. The Angel was not a subtle person. She felt a tiny pinch of guilt, knowing that Billy would moan when SCARE got the bill for this—they were always seriously underfunded—but she had to do what she thought was right. And the tickling feeling in her spine and the haunting whispers in her ears were telling her that this was right.
“Save my soul from evil, Lord, and heal this warrior’s heart,” she murmured. Her four-foot-long, flaming cross-hilted broadsword appeared in her leather-gauntleted hands and she plowed through the door, yanking it from its frame, shattering its wooden panels, and sending pieces flying before her into the room beyond.
“Freeze, Stunt—Jesus Christ!” a foreign-accented voice shouted. The empty bed and the aborted command that had come from one of the two men standing across the room both told her that Jamal wasn’t present, though plainly expected.
They gaped at her, momentarily caught mid-draw. She knew that she had only a fraction of a second before they’d shoot. Her sudden appearance had disconcerted them, as had the flying pieces of shattered debris they were ducking. They raised their arms to shield their faces. The Angel knew the only thing to do was disconcert them further.
She cocked her arm and threw her blade sideways. It helicoptered across the room like a flashing scythe and as it left her hand the sprinkler system in the ceiling kicked in. The fire alarm hooted, adding to the chaos. Even more astonishing, at least to the ambushers, the flames dancing on the sword’s blade were unaffected by the water spraying upon them. The Angel was not surprised. Like the sword itself, the flames were unnatural. Both were manifestations of the grace granted her by God and like her righteous anger neither could be quenched, broken, or even impeded by anything physical.
She followed the whirling blade, not breaking stride as she stooped low and in passing a desk single-handedly grabbed it by a leg and bore down upon the two men, waving the furniture over her head like an unwieldy club.
The men both seemed to be nats, but were as mismatched physically as a comedy team. One was short and round, the other tall and skinny. The skinny one was an inch or two taller than the Angel. The short, fat guy had long blond hair that was slicked back even before being soaked by the ceiling sprinkler, and was pulled into a lank ponytail.
Their pistols momentarily forgotten, both were ducking and cringing. They fell sideways to avoid the whirling blade that was exuding clouds of steam as the sprinklers pattered down upon it. The flames might not have been real, but they were as hot as hell and the blade was sharp as a serpent’s tooth as it chunked solidly into the wall near them, neatly slicing off the tip of the fat man’s ponytail as he fell on his ass trying to get out of the way.
The fat one fell to the Angel’s left, the sword vibrating in the wall and impeding her access to him, so she swatted the skinny one with the desk as he desperately tried to bring his pistol into line. He got off a shot, but the bullet flew over the Angel’s head as her ungainly club smashed into him on his head and torso. It was only cheap hotel furniture and it shattered as it drove him down to the floor, but it was more solid than he was. He had time for a single scream that segued into a choking gurgle as it passed his lips.
The Angel dropped the desk leg and pulled her steaming sword out of the wall. She slashed at the fat one, but he wanted no more of her. He vanished, sinking through the hotel-room floor faster than a boulder through water. He left no trace of his passing, except for a single gasped word.
“Gospody!”
The Angel sat down on the edge of the adjacent bed, sighed, and said automatically, “Don’t blaspheme.”
She glanced over at the skinny guy. He was still there and apparently alive and conscious. His arms and legs were moving feebly as he lay on the floor among the wreckage of the desk. She slipped the tip of her sword under the largest piece of debris and flipped it off him. His eyes were half closed. He was bleeding from his mouth and a nose that had once been rather sharp and prominent, but was now smashed flat. His gun lay on the floor by his side. On his chest, among the remains of the shattered desk, lay a closed laptop.
The Angel’s eyes gleamed. “Jamal’s computer,” she said. It had been in a desk drawer that now also lay splintered on the man’s chest.
She took her hands from the sword hilt and the blade disappeared. She arose from the bed, knelt down before her feebly groaning prisoner, and picked up his gun. She glanced at it. She had no idea what kind it was. She didn’t like guns. She ejected the clip, checked the chamber (Billy had taught her how to do this; he didn’t like guns either, but he used them if he had to), and she tossed the weapon onto the bed.
The man groaned. The Angel eyed him grimly. He and his fat partner must have been waiting for Jamal to return. Waiting to kill him. She didn’t like hit men, either.
“Shut up.”
The man fell silent. She took the laptop off his chest. She had one just like it. Government issued.
The Angel heard the sound of running feet out in the hallway and she stood, muttering her prayer, facing the doorway, sword again in hand as the desk clerk staggered into the room, breathing heavily. His eyes went wide.
“Jesus fucking Christ! What the hell is going on in here?”
The Angel looked at him sternly and pointed her sword at him. “First,” she said severely, “don’t blaspheme.”
The clerk, who’d been frantically glancing about the room until he’d seen the apparent body and desk debris at the Angel’s feet, snapped his eye back to her. He licked his lips and stood very still.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Second,” the Angel said, “turn off the water.” She caught herself just in time to not say “damned water.”
He nodded accommodatingly. The hit man at her feet let a groan out between his mashed lips. She looked down at him. He closed his eyes and pretended to be unconscious. The Angel sighed. As much as she’d like to have him all to herself for a while, she knew he needed medical attention.
“And third, you’d better call the police.”
The desk clerk nodded hurriedly, turned, and dashed away.
“And bring me some towels,” she shouted at his back.
When they got to the Carter School, the playground was filled with children. A number of them were jokers. All of them were wild carders. Some had been rescued from the People’s Paradise of Africa eugenics program and brought back to America. Adesina had been one of those children.
Michelle saw Rusty and Ghost standing at the foot of the steps leading up to the school. Wally’s iron skin was looking pretty good. There was no rust on him and he had a dull sheen in the sun.
Yerodin was noncorporeal at the moment and floated a few inches above the ground. Ghost and Adesina had been rescued from the PPA together. Wally had adopted Ghost and brought her back to New York as Michelle had done with Adesina. The girls had become friends after starting school together.
Ghost turned solid and pulled her tablet from her bag. The girls began playing the multiplayer version of Ocelot 9 as they walked up the steps to the school doors. The game was ridiculously popular at the moment, and Adesina was fixated on all things Ocelot.
“Hey,” Michelle said, using her best mom voice. “I thought we agreed, no games at school.”
“It’s only summer school, Mom,” Adesina replied. She looked at Yerodin with an expression that said, “Parents.” Ghost returned the look.
“Michelle is right,” Wally said in his thick Minnesota accent. “You need to put those tablets away or we’ll take ’em away.” He was far too nice to make it sound even a little bit like a threat. The girls giggled.
“Oh, hell,” Michelle sighed. “It is only summer school. They’re mostly doing arts and crafts and playing music, anyway.” She shoved her hands in her pants pockets. “But this counts as part of your six hours of games for this week, Adesina!”
The girls were already halfway up the steps, and Ghost just waved. Moto and Cesar were waiting for the girls at the top of the steps.
All of the children in the group had been in the PPA together, and all had been experimented on. Michelle couldn’t believe how normal they seemed after everything they’d been through. They went into the building, and she turned to Wally. He was looking moodily at The Carter.
The building had been built in Gardener’s memory: The Jerusha Carter Childhood Development Center. Gardener had died in the PPA, and Wally had been devastated. Michelle was grateful there was a place like The Carter for children like Adesina and her friends. Jerusha would have liked that.
“You doing okay, Wally?” she asked. He’d never been the same since Gardener died.
“Oh, I’m doing fine,” he said. “Can’t complain.”
It was the same exchange they had every time they ran into each other. There was a kind of comfort in it. He lied and she let him.
“You got plans?” he asked. She liked that he always sounded as if he was really interested.
“Got a shoot for L’Oreal,” she replied with a shrug. “Hair stuff. They’ll do computer magic and make me look like my hair is the most impossibly beautiful thing ever. Oh, and the commercial is with me and Peregrine together! How awesome is that?”
Wally nodded and smiled. “She sure was nice on American Hero. And really pretty.”
“I know. She was very nice to me, even after I got booted off.”
She looked at her phone, checking the time. “I guess I should get going. I told Babel I’d come by and get caught up on Committee business after this shoot. Busy day. Oh, are the girls still having a sleepover at your house on Friday?”
“You betcha,” he said, a real smile breaking out across his steam-shovel face. “We’re going to make cupcakes, eat pizza, and play that Ocelot game all night. I even found some of those stuffed Cherry Witch toys.” A baffled expression crossed his face. “I sure don’t understand this game. Ocelots and witches. It makes no sense at all.”
“It’s a phase. Severe cuteness is a little girl thing. And your sleepover plans sound awesome, Wally.” She gave him a hug, then began walking to the subway.
Franny didn’t need to speak Russian or Kazakh to recognize expletives. Stache was raging. Baba Yaga stood very still. The engine of the van pinged softly as the engine cooled. They stood in the empty, echoing cavernous hangar at the Talas International Airport. There were a couple of tire blocks tossed off to one side, several tall lockers, and a workbench against one wall.
“I take it there’s supposed to be an airplane in here?” Franny finally said. Baba Yaga just spun on her heel and walked back to the van. “Not very big on conversation, is she?” Franny said to Stache, who had seemingly run out of cuss words.
Before she reached the van the old woman staggered. Franny crossed the distance between them in time to keep her from hitting the oil-stained concrete. Small as she was it still hurt his shoulder and his side and he gave a hiss of pain. As for Baba Yaga her eyes were half lidded and she was very pale.
“Always the hero, eh,” she rasped out.
“Let’s settle for gentleman. My mom raised me right.”
Looking worried, Stache joined them. There was another hurried conversation. Since Franny couldn’t either understand or join in he decided to investigate the lockers. Maybe somebody kept a change of street clothes. Running around in an ill-fitting tuxedo was going to draw attention. They were locked, but the locks looked flimsy so he took a wrench off the worktable and using his good arm bashed them loose.
“What are you doing?” Baba Yaga called.
“Looking for something a little less conspicuous. I’m tired of running around like an action hero in a spy novel.”
Her eyes raked him up and down. “Don’t flatter yourself,” was the dry response.
“Guess your mother didn’t raise you right.” He pulled open the doors, and got lucky. There were some clothes in one of the lockers. “Didn’t she ever teach you the Thumper rule?”
“What is the Thumper rule?”
“If you can’t say anything nice don’t say anything at all.”
“Stupid rule.”
For some reason the exchange amused him. Franny stifled a smile. “So, what’s the plan now?”
The old woman seemed to have exhausted the number of words she would allot to Franny and she didn’t answer. Instead she climbed into the backseat of the van. Stache leaned in the door, and there was another quick, incomprehensible conversation.
An imperious wave brought Franny to her side. “Go to the terminal. Investigate the situation. And no, I can’t send him.” She nodded at Stache. “He is known to work for me.”
Franny wasn’t actually going to argue because it meant he could get away from Baba Yaga and he was at an international airport—a fact he found rather surprising, but was happy to roll with it. Moving to the front of the van he changed out of the purloined tux and into the jeans. The jeans were too short and the shirt was a no-go, it was way too small, which forced him to stay in the dress shirt, which sported a bloodstain. To hide the stain Franny slipped back on the tux jacket. Unlike the slacks with their formal stripe it didn’t just scream tux but he was sure not making a sartorial statement.
He headed off across the tarmac toward the terminal. The air reeked of jet fuel and the sun bounced off the pavement, adding to his throbbing headache. He circled the main terminal building until he found the front doors. There was the usual flow of travelers, uniformed airline personnel, the expected security, and big men in dark suits with suspicious bulges under their arms. They were surveying everyone entering the building. It seemed that Baba Yaga’s criminal competitors had anticipated her move. Still the old lady was right and they didn’t know Franny. He could walk through those doors and—
His thoughts stuttered to a stop. And do what? He had no money, and no passport. Talk to the cops? The cops all appeared to be backing the various mobsters. Maybe somebody would let him use the phone? To make an international call? Yeah, like that was going to happen. No, he had to resign himself—he was not going to be boarding a plane out of this shithole. It appeared that for the moment Baba Yaga was his only ticket out. Maybe he’d find an opportunity to help himself to some of the loot in her satchel and then he could consider other options.
Once again he thought of Mollie and that flash he’d seen through the doorway she’d opened for her escape. She had gone to Paris. Fucking Paris.
He returned to the private hangar. Baba Yaga just st
ared at him. “They’re waiting for you to show up,” Franny said.
The old woman nodded and spoke to Stache. He started the van. Franny scrambled into the passenger seat next to him and they were on the move.
Once again they skirted the city until they hit the entrance to a modern highway. There was a cop car parked there, lights revolving, a uniformed officer leaning against the side. Baba Yaga snapped out a command, and Stache swerved away from the entrance.
Another hurried and incomprehensible conversation ensued. Stache pulled a hard U-turn and they headed back toward the airport, only this time they sailed past. The Belt of Venus formed a pink arch on the horizon. Above it stars littered the sky. It also told Franny they were traveling east, but to where?
“Where are we going?” he asked. Baba Yaga ignored him, and kept scrolling on the cell phone. “May I use your phone? Call my captain.”
“No.”
“How about my mother?”
“No.”
They turned down a road that seemed to be heading for distant hills rising like dark blue cutouts against a paler sky. After another couple of turns it was clear that was where they were heading.
“So we’re literally heading for the hills?” The smile he’d summoned at his own feeble joke curdled and died under Baba Yaga’s gelid gaze.
The Angel sat on the desk chair, towel in hand, watching expressionless as the cop surveyed her handiwork. She’d mopped her face dry, but her long brown hair, tightly braided in a thick rope that hung nearly to her waist, was still soaked and dripping lightly onto the soaked hotel-room rug. Fortunately, the leather jumpsuit that she favored while in the field had repelled the sprinklers’ advances and she was still dry underneath it.
“Andrei the Ice Man,” the blond detective-inspector said as the EMTs lifted him, groaning, onto a dolly and wheeled him across the squishy carpet. “Nice work. How many times did you hit him?”
High Stakes: A Wild Cards Novel Page 5