by J. R. Ward
“I snowed myself.”
“Well, I got one other piece of info for you—although I’m not sure I want to give it over. Sounds like you’re in too deep already.”
Bracing herself, she muttered, “Tell me. I might as well know all of it.”
CHAPTER 8
North Lawn, Heaven
Up high above the earth, in the celestial realm, the archangel Nigel strode over cropped green grass, hands clasped behind his back, head down, eyes straight ahead. His croquet whites had not been put to proper use, his failure to concentrate rendering him a pitiful contestant against the archangel Colin’s prodigious skills with a mallet.
Indeed, Nigel’s balls had been rolling thither and yon, going everywhere except through the wickets.
Eventually, he’d given up the pretense. There was no training his mind upon aught save what irritated him so, and therefore he was useless but for ambulation and rumination.
Damn it, rules needed to be followed. That was why in contests of wit and wiles they were agreed upon before play began—so there were no questions or errors due to misinterpretation in the midst of the game. Verily, he had always believed that a fair contest required two things: well-matched opponents and well-defined parameters.
And in the case at hand, namely that of the future of mankind, the first criterion was met rather squarely. His side and the demon Devina’s were equal in strengths, weaknesses, and focus.
Most particularly the focus part, as both “teams” knew well how high the stakes were: The very future of the world below hung in the balance, the great Creator’s patience having been tried over a protracted, inconclusive course of conflict between good and evil on the planet below. Mere weeks ago, it had been declared from on high that there would be seven final opportunities to prevail—and upon a simple majority of them, dominion would be won over not only the physical world but the bucolic heavens and the fiery depths of Hell.
Nigel was in charge of the “good” side. Devina captained the “bad.”
And that scurrilous demon was cheating.
The rules of the game provided that Nigel and Devina were to choose the souls “in play” and then sit back and watch Jim Heron interact and steer the course of events such that the resolution was either redemption or condemnation.
Seven chances. And the first one had been resolved in Nigel’s favor.
The next six were to be conducted in the true arena. And in the course of events, Nigel and Devina were allowed a certain amount of “coaching”: As Nigel had won the coin toss, so he had been permitted to approach Jim first—and for parity to be preserved, Devina had been likewise allowed to interact with the man. But now they were supposed to be off the field and on the sidelines for the most part, with interaction limited to the occasional time-out and the end-of-match recap by whoever’s side won.
Devina was down there, however. Down there and mucking about.
“You interfered as well.”
Nigel stopped, but did not turn around to face Colin. “My dear boy, do go fuck yourself.”
Colin’s laugh was deep and for once lacking in sarcasm. “Ah, there’s the lad we know and love. I’d wondered where you’d gone, given how badly you’d played.”
Keeping his back to his best mate, Nigel stared across the lawn at the high castle walls of the Manse of Souls. Beyond the vast stone fortification, in an infinite mansion of fine appointments and leisurely accoutrements, were the life-lights of those who had proven themselves of good and fine nature during their time on Earth.
If the angels did not prevail, all of those who so deserved what they had now would be lost to the pits of Hell. As would all else—including himself and his three associates.
“Adrian and Edward are not in the rules,” Colin pointed out.
“They take direction from him. It is a far sight different from what she is doing.”
“Granted. But we are not unrepresented down there.”
“She is toying with the fundamentals of the conflict.”
“Are you truly surprised.” Colin’s tone, always sharp, turned deadly. “We have battled her too long to be taken unaware by her duplicity. Which perhaps is why the Creator allows you to persist with our two emissaries.”
“Perhaps also the Creator wishes us to win.”
Nigel forced himself to start walking again, and his eyes could not depart from the bridge over the moat and the stout entrance to the manse. The sight of the massive, locked portal, to which only he had the metaphysical key, reassured him—but alas it was for no good reason. The souls were safe only if these contests were won.
“Are you going to take further action?” Colin asked as they made a fat loop over the lawn and headed toward the table upon which tea had been set out.
“How can I?”
“You’re willing to risk losing just to be honest?”
Nigel waved at Bertie and Byron, who were seated off in the distance before a teapot and a carousel of tiny sandwiches. As was proper, they had neither poured nor partaken, and they would not until the other two chairs at the table were filled. Meanwhile, Tarquin, Bertie’s beloved Irish wolfhound, was curled into a sit at the archangel’s side, the great beast staring over at Colin and Nigel, his wise, calm eyes missing nothing.
Nigel fussed with his cravat. “Victory and deceit are incompatible. And Adrian and Edward were your idea. I don’t know why I’m allowing it.”
Colin cursed, his aristocratic intonation adding precise corners to the naughty words. “You know damn well we don’t stand a bloody chance unless we bend the rules as well. That’s why you’re consenting.”
Nigel’s form of reply was but a quiet coughing sound, his signal that the conversation was over and done with. And upon his lead, the two of them went to the table that was arranged at his will and would disappear in the same manner.
Nigel, as with the others, neither lived nor breathed; he simply was. And the food was the same, neither necessary nor extant—as was the landscape and all that the four of them did to pass their eternity. But the trappings of a gracious life were of value. Indeed, the quarters that he shared with Colin were well kitted-out and the sojourns they took therein were not for any sleep necessity, but for recharging of a different kind.
War was exhausting, its burdens ne’er-ending, and at times, one needed physical succor.
As Nigel took his place at the table, he pulled his strength about him and resumed the mantle of leadership whilst Byron smiled and poured. In front of the other two, he was ever who he had to be. Colin, however, was different—although only when they were alone.
Never when there were others present.
As he lifted his fine bone china cup off its saucer, the perfumed steam from the Earl Grey wafted into his nose, and he worried beneath his calm exterior.
They could not risk losing even one of these contests, but a gentleman did not play dirty.
He had his standards of gamesmanship.
Damn it.
CHAPTER 9
Out in the Boston suburb of Malden, Jim and Adrian and Eddie were nothing but shadows in the dense darkness as they approached a half-finished office building. The structure was part of a shaggy, abandoned development that had some fifteen or more of the suckers . . . and not a single one of them was in use or even completed. Which suggested the financer/owner was bleeding mortally from his bank account.
Assuming he hadn’t already toe-tagged himself with Chapter 7 paperwork and jumped into a liquidation grave.
The unit they’d come to see had a circle of lawn that cut into the balding forest in back, and the three of them stayed among the trees while surveilling the layout: The five-story-high skeleton was up and sealed with plum-colored glass windows, but there were no lights on and nothing but packed dirt for the parking lot in the rear.
Place was utterly abandoned.
Well, by lawful visitors, that was.
Illegal trespassers were streaming in, their cars and trucks forming a surprising
ly orderly row not far from where Jim and his boys were.
Looked like the intel from that fireman back at the gym had been solid.
“You know,” Adrian said, “I could get in the ring. Throw some fists. Maybe a human or two.”
Jim shook his head. “I don’t think we need that right now.”
“In an earlier life, were you a pair of brakes?”
“Try a brick wall. Come on, let’s get down there.”
Blending in among the other men heading for the back entrance, Jim searched for Isaac—in the unlikely event the guy had gotten out of jail and still wanted to fight. But more significantly, he kept his eyes peeled for someone who looked like a soldier: hard, tight in the head, and there to get a job done instead of play spectator.
He was after the one who was supposed to kill Isaac.
With the way the XOps team worked, it would be somebody they’d both worked with: Given the amount of screening and training and proving ground you had to go through to get on the team, there was a limited pool of guys who made it, and new recruits took years to develop. Jim had been out only about six months; he was going to know the assassin.
And so would Isaac.
“You guys head in,” he said to his boys as they came up to a door propped open by a cinder block. “I’m going to hang out here. Let me know if you see Rothe.”
Except he was going to bet they didn’t. If the soldier was here at all, he’d be hiding somewhere and scoping out who had come before making himself known. After all, it didn’t take a genius to figure out that getting popped by the police was tantamount to sticking a red flag in your ass.
Which was why in some respects, intercepting the assassin was even more important than running into Isaac.
As Eddie and Ad slipped through the fire door, Jim faded back so that he was standing in the lee of the building. Which was out of habit rather than necessity—no one could see him.
Another bene of being an angel: He could choose when he was visible to mortals.
Lighting up a Marlboro that he kept as hidden as his leather jacket and his combats, he tracked the crowd as it filed in. Tonight’s peanut gallery was made up of your standard-issue Joes: Lot of junior-varsity beer guts—that in another five years were going to be state champs. Patriots and Red Sox hats only. Couple of Chelmsford High School sweatshirts.
When the influx became just a trickle, he was ready to curse. Maybe he should have infiltrated the damn jail—although that would have been complicated. Lot of eyes, and even though he could pull off the not-there, if he had to kill somebody or save someone? He’d make any audience schizoid and probably show up in a blurry “Aliens Exist!” article in the National Enquirer—
A lone man emerged from the ring of trees. He was huge and the black windbreaker he wore did absolutely nothing to shrink the size of his shoulders. As he approached, he walked like the soldier he’d been trained to be, swinging his gaze around and keeping both hands in his pockets—likely gripping one or maybe two guns.
“Hello, Isaac . . .” As soon as the name left his lips, Jim was struck by a powerful, inescapable pull that made the man not just a target, but a destination.
The original plan had been to find the guy and throw him on a plane out of the country with some resources—just to help him along his way.
Now, though, he realized he needed to do more than that.
Chalking up the sea change to seeing Rothe for the first time since that night in the desert, Jim did not run up to the guy or shout his name or do anything that would spook the fucker. Instead, he summoned illumination to himself, calling it out of the darkness by agitating the molecules around his body.
He made sure his hands were up and his palms were empty. And that Isaac was the only one who saw him.
Isaac’s head snapped around. And a nasty-looking gun appeared from out of that windbreaker.
Jim didn’t move and just shook his head, the universal sign for “I’m not here to cap your ass.”
When Isaac finally came forward, he took no chances. As he stepped up, another gun came out of a pocket to hang discreetly at his side. Both weapons had silencers and blended in with his black track pants.
For a moment, the pair of them just stared at each other like a couple of idiots, and Jim had an absurd impulse to hug the motherfucker—although he doused that quick. One, there was no reason to be a nancy. And two, it would likely get him shot at point-blank range: XOps soldiers weren’t snugglers—unless they planned on killing someone.
“Hey,” Jim said roughly.
Isaac cleared his throat. Twice. “What are you doing here?”
“Just passing through. Thought I’d take you to dinner.”
That got a slow smile, the kind that smacked of the past. “Payback?”
“Yeah.” Jim’s eyes traced the rear lot and saw only a couple of stragglers. “You could call it that.”
“I thought you were out.”
“I am.”
“So . . .” When Jim didn’t immediately answer, the guy’s icy eyes grew shrewd. “He sent you to kill me. Didn’t he.”
“I needed a favor and it was expensive.”
“So why are we talking?”
“I don’t take orders from Matthias anymore.”
Isaac frowned. “Stupid ass. He’s going to hunt you now, too. Unless you blow my head off here and now.”
Jim put his cigarette between his teeth and held his palms out. “I’m unarmed. Pat me down.”
It was entirely unsurprising that Isaac disappeared one of his guns, and with his free hand, did a quick review of Jim’s territory.
That frown rode the guy’s brow even harder. “What the fuck are you thinking.”
“Right now? Oh . . . let’s see, that you should not be fighting in there, for starters. After all, I’m assuming you’re not here as part of the popcorn-and-Raisinets set. Instead, I want you to come with me and let me help you get out of the country safely.”
Isaac’s voice was ancient as he shook his head. “You know I can’t trust you. I’m sorry, man. But I can’t.”
Fucking hell.
Bottom line, though, was you couldn’t fault the reasoning: In XOps, even when you were on assignments with your compadres, it was each man for himself. Decide to leave the fold? If you were smart, you wouldn’t put your life or your faith in your own mother’s hands.
Jim took a drag and focused on the other man’s face, feeling that burning drive in his chest get hotter. Hard to explain the “why” of it . . . but he couldn’t pull out now that he’d found Isaac. Even if that compromised his battle with Devina. Even if Isaac didn’t want his help. Even if it put himself in danger.
Isaac Rothe had to be saved.
“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. “But I need to help you. And you’re going to let me.”
The other man’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Excuse me?”
Jim glanced over to the door. Adrian and Eddie had reappeared and . . . the two of them were looking like this was all supposed to happen. As if they had known all along that Isaac would show up here. And Jim would talk to the guy. And . . .
On a quick tilt of the head, Jim regarded the dark heavens, and thought about the way his first assignment had gone: no coincidences in any of the chain of events. Everyone and everything he’d met up with had woven into his task. And golly gee-fuckin’-whiz, it was so not hard to imagine that Matthias was playing on Devina’s team. The guy had done evil wherever he went, perpetrating acts of violence and deceit that had both shaped the world on a global scale as well as altered private lives forever.
Jim refocused on Isaac. Maybe being so damned committed to this AWOL soldier wasn’t just a page out of his past . . . Hell, Nigel, his new boss, hadn’t seemed easygoing in the slightest—and yet the archangel had rolled over the instant Jim had announced he was going after Isaac: Not the kind of thing that you did if you were team captain and your quarterback started running for your own goal line.
Exactly the kind of thing you did if your boy was right where you wanted him.
Holy shit . . . Isaac was his next assignment.
Man, that shit he’d pulled over his own corpse at the funeral home was going to prove to be a stroke of genius.
“You’re going to need me,” he pronounced.
“I can take care of myself.”
As Isaac went to leave, Jim snagged his arm. “You know you can’t do this alone. Don’t be an asshole.”
There was a long moment.
“What are you thinking, Jim.” The guy’s pale eyes were haunted. “You were out. You were free. You were the one who got away. Why would you go back into the hellhole?”
Jim led with a logic that the other man could believe in—and something that was also the truth; just not the only one. “I owe you. You know that. I owe you for that night.”
Jim Heron was exactly as Isaac remembered him: big, jacked, and nothing but business. The blue eyes were the same, the blond hair was still mostly buzzed off, the face was freshly shaven as always. He even had a Marlboro quietly smoldering in his hand.
But there was something a little different, some kind of vibe that was just . . . off, though not in a bad way.
Maybe the lucky bastard had taken to actually sleeping at night, as opposed to keeping a gun in his palm and waking up at every sound.
God, when he’d heard Heron had pulled out of XOps, he’d never expected to see the man again—either because Matthias rethought the soldier’s bye-bye-birdie card and put a bullet into his think tank or because Jim wisely stayed away from anyone and anything that had to do with his former life.
And yet here he was.
As Isaac stared into the guy’s eyes, he found himself believing, as much as he could, that Heron had come to help because of that debt created in the land of sand and sun. Besides, if the SOB had wanted Isaac dead, that would have happened long before any of this conversating had gotten rolling.
“If I’d come to kill you,” Jim murmured, “you’d be on the ground already.”
Bingo.