Michael jogged down to the end, unslung the MP-5 and risked a glance through the window. A row of white shipping containers, the kind that cranes moved from ships to eighteen-wheelers, stretched out as far as he could see.
A black-suited guard sprinted past his line of vision, and he pulled back. The shadows of two more followed.
The light on the door lock was already blinking yellow. He didn’t even bother with the guard’s key this time. He tried his decoder. Then a second time. A third.
His instincts were telling him to get out. Get out now.
He tried a fourth time, and a fifth. Nothing.
His heart hammered in his chest. Something had gone wrong. And he was so close. So painfully close.
But he had to abort. Now.
He trotted back the way he had come. The guard was still unconscious. It wouldn’t be long before they missed him. But he might have enough time to make it back over the fence. He pushed through the door and stepped outside.
“Hold it!”
It wasn’t the command that drew Michael up short. It was the dozen or so red laser dots that swarmed across his chest.
The guards were arranged in a semicircle around the door, spread far enough apart to make sure he couldn’t hit them all with a burst before they took him down. Some crouched, some stood. All of them had their fingers on the trigger.
Michael didn’t have any choice. Slowly, he lowered his MP-5 to the ground. Then he straightened up, hands in the air.
Footsteps approached from the other side of a parked truck. A short, round figure came into view. He took his time stepping into the light where Michael could see him.
“Well, now. This here …” Arthur Givens scratched the stubble underneath his round chin. “This is awkward, isn’t it?”
TWENTY-ONE
An inhuman shriek split the night, something between the hissing roar of a predatory animal and the scream of twisting metal. Mitch fled across open grass under glittering stars, arms pumping, lungs burning. The Archangel shrieked again, closer behind him. He looked back as the thing solidified from the darkness. In a fluid motion, it drew back one shimmering arm, its claws flashing in the starlight as it went for his throat.
Mitch jerked awake, gasping for breath. The motel room was almost pitch black. The bed and the lamp were blocky shapes in the darkness. He had no idea what time it was. The bones in his neck popped as he sat up. His head pounded.
Geneva slept peacefully, breathing slow, deep breaths. He watched her for a minute, making sure she was still okay. Still alive.
Slowly, he got to his feet, hearing joints pop all the way. He shuffled into the bathroom, trying to be as quiet as he could.
He shut the door and turned on the light, just about blinding himself. He ran some hot water in the sink and scrubbed the dried blood off his hands. After a minute, he was able to blink at his reflection in the mirror. He had big shadows under his eyes. His hair stuck out in all directions. He had a couple days of gray stubble itching on his chin and neck. He looked like hell.
He washed his face, patted it dry on a towel. He couldn’t push the Archangel out of his mind. It wanted the black box. Why? What was it after, really?
Could they use the black box as a lure? Bring the thing closer and then—what? They couldn’t kill it. And if they gave up the black box, what then? Who else would this thing kill? How many other daughters and sons, how many parents?
How many people had died trying to destroy this thing? And how many more people would die if he gave up?
He dried his hands, turned out the light and crept over to the front door. He stopped there, listening to Geneva sleep, and then slipped outside. He stared up at the night sky. Where had this thing come from? Who else knew about it?
How long would it be before it came after them again?
Nothing moved in the parking lot except a cool wind. Traffic hissed by on the highway. A helicopter rattled through the sky. Mitch walked down the line of doors toward the office, where bleak light spilled out of the windows. A couple of vending machines hummed next to the door. He figured maybe a Coke would do something for his headache. Even just a bottle of water.
He started dropping coins into the machine when he saw, through the window, Xiapong standing in the hotel office with the saddest look on his face.
The small old guy had his hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing brown polyester pants and a wrinkled button-up shirt. It looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. But the odd thing was, he looked positively mournful. Mitch had never seen the guy without a smile on his face.
He was about to go in, ask him how he was doing, when a young guy in a gray suit and a buzz-cut popped up from behind the counter, lifting up a metal box of index cards. He held up one of the cards and started asking Xiapong questions.
Mitch couldn’t hear the words, but he didn’t need to. Xiapong turned around to answer, and that’s when Mitch saw the handcuffs.
Mitch pulled back from the window, flattened himself against the wall. His heart started thudding in his chest.
Were they Feds? They couldn’t be here for him. They couldn’t be. There was no way they could know he was here.
Then he remembered calling Lanny’s cell phone. How nobody answered.
Mitch swore.
He crept back toward the room, moving as fast as he could without making any noise. Suddenly, the door felt like it was a mile away.
He started walking faster. Screw the noise. Behind him, he heard the office door open.
“Hey,” a guy said. “Hey, you.”
Mitch didn’t flinch. Kept walking. He was halfway there. Only thirty feet to go. Just a matter of seconds. Maybe the guy would let him go.
“Federal agent! Stop!”
Mitch ran. He felt a flash of cold adrenaline shoot through him. He charged at the door, head ducked low, trying to make himself as small a target as possible.
A little chunk of brick vanished from the wall just in front of him. Sharp bits sprayed his arm. He got to the door, slipped through, locked it behind him. Only then did it dawn on him that someone had just tried to shoot him with a silenced pistol.
“Geneva!” he yelled. “Wake up!”
He found the light switch and flipped it on, flooding the room with light. Geneva threw her good arm over her face, moaned.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the bed. “They’re here. We gotta go.”
“What?” She stumbled as he pulled her toward the bathroom. He wished he hadn’t given her the painkillers.
“They’re here. The Feds. Come on!”
“The Conspiracy.” She followed him into the bathroom, and then pulled back. “The pulser! Where is it?”
Someone kicked the front door, trying to break it down.
“Must be in the car. Come on!”
“No! I had it.”
The front door burst in. Mitch caught a glimpse of the guy he’d seen in the office, and another guy behind him, both with long, silenced pistols. He pulled Geneva into the bathroom.
Parts of the door frame exploded into splinters. Mitch slammed the door, locked it. Like that would do any good.
He slid the little window open and punched through the screen with his fist, knocked it out. “Go!”
She didn’t argue. She climbed up onto the sink and got halfway through the window before she stopped. “You’re not going to fit through here.”
“Forget about me. Go get the car. Bring it around front.”
“What? No, Mitch—” She started to climb back inside.
He pushed her. She fell through, yelling.
The bathroom door burst open. The gray-suited guy pushed his way in. Mitch kicked the door shut in his face, trapping the guy’s arm. The gun went off, didn’t make much more than a snap, and the mirror shattered.
Mitch kicked the door again, hearing the wood crack. The pistol dropped from the guy’s hand, and he grunted in pain.
Mitch bent over to grab the gun. The door
flew open. The guy slammed into Mitch full-force, knocking them both back against the shower.
Mitch grabbed the guy’s arm and twisted it around behind his back. The guy obviously worked out, had strong shoulders, but Mitch had a few years and a lot more weight.
Mitch charged through the doorway, steering the guy in front of him. The other guy stepped in their way with his pistol held out in both hands.
Mitch ran the first guy right into him. They went down in a tangle that took out the bedside lamp. It shattered on the floor.
Mitch saw the pulser on the bed, in the blood-stained sheets. Geneva must have held onto it while she slept. Mitch dove on the bed. Grabbed the pulser. Flipped over, aiming with both hands. Flipped the switch, making the whiny green light come on.
The gray-suit guy froze halfway to his feet. Mitch saw the split-second calculations going on behind his eyes. The guy went for his pistol.
Mitch pulled the trigger. A fat blue-white beam shot out, hitting the guy square in the chest. A sizzling sound filled the air, like a crackle of electricity. Twisting arcs of energy danced around the beam, almost too quick to see. The guy jerked and collapsed on the floor, twitching.
Mitch zapped the other guy just as he was bringing his gun up. Overhead, the ceiling light blew out. Sparks rained down into the sudden darkness. The smell of burning plastic filled the air.
Mitch ran to the open door. He hid just inside, listening. He heard two people running toward him from opposite directions, their shoes slapping on the concrete. They slowed down as they got near the door.
Mitch waited as long as he dared, then stepped out and blasted the first guy. The flash from the pulser was so bright it lit up the parking lot outside. A handful of cars honked and went silent as their alarm systems fried.
He turned to zap the second guy, but someone got him from behind. Mitch staggered under the weight. He jabbed his elbow hard behind him, connecting with someone’s ribs.
Someone else grabbed the pulser and twisted it out of Mitch’s grip. Mitch brought his knee up into the guy’s stomach, dropping him. Then the second guy behind him piled on, and the weight of them both brought Mitch toppling to his knees.
He heard the sound of the Cougar’s engine as it came through the parking lot. Geneva yelled, “Mitch!”
The guys all turned to look at her in the Cougar, idling maybe forty feet away.
One of them, the one in the gray suit, said, “It’s her! Take her down!”
They brought their guns up. Mitch fought his way to his feet and grabbed the two guys in front, one in each arm. Brought them crashing down onto the concrete with him.
“Geneva!” Mitch yelled. “Get out of here!”
“Mitch, no!”
Somebody got an arm around Mitch’s throat and pulled back, choking him.
He saw her face, full of fear. He couldn’t let her get killed trying to save him.
“The black box,” he choked out. “Save it! Go!”
Tires squealed, and a dark sedan came barreling through the parking lot toward the Cougar. Geneva squinted into the glare of its headlights, then looked back at Mitch with her face as calm as a mask, just like the first time he saw her. He saw her arm move as she shifted into reverse.
The Cougar’s rear wheels smoked, and it shot backward between the rows of parked cars. When it got clear, it skidded around in a backward turn. The engine roared, and the Cougar shot out the entrance and away down the road. The dark sedan followed.
“Son of a bitch,” the guy behind him said. “She’s getting away.”
Through his teeth, Mitch said, “That’s my girl.”
The guy behind him tightened his grip on Mitch’s throat. The world went gray and speckled, and Mitch passed out.
*
Geneva picked up a second tail before she was able to shake the first one. She headed for the highway, knowing that her best chance was to put the throttle to the floor and let Brutus eat up a few miles of open road. Still groggy from Mitch’s painkillers, she didn’t trust herself to do much quick maneuvering.
She hit the highway on-ramp and accelerated through the tight curve, seeing them in the rearview mirror, identical dark-colored sedans, late model. Windows tinted black.
At the end of the entrance ramp, a sea of red taillights waited for her. There was nowhere to go. She gave Brutus some gas anyway, trying to put any distance she could between her and the sedans. The tach swung up. Brutus kicked her back in the seat.
The on-ramp ended and she lunged into the traffic, taillights streaking across her vision. Horns blared.
Up ahead, the red lights got thick and slow. She swore. Had to be construction, or some kind of accident. She swung onto the shoulder. Behind her, the two sedans followed. Gravel pinged inside her fenders.
A white pickup moved onto the shoulder in front of her, trying to cut around traffic. She braked, trapped. She flashed her high beams. The truck put on its turn signal and slowed down, trying to merge back into the lane.
One of the sedans came up behind her, headlights bright. Brutus jumped as the sedan hit the back bumper. The rear tires skidded out. The horizon streaked across the windshield.
Geneva fought the skid. She steered Brutus into it, felt the tires bite again and fishtailed around the white pickup. It was all moving too fast. She tried to focus, but the painkillers messed with her perspective, turning everything into a blur.
Ahead, traffic had stopped dead. The shoulder gave away to dirt and orange cones. A concrete barrier came at her.
No time to think. She turned hard, took Brutus off the pavement. A split second of air passed beneath the tires, and then she hit the dirt hard. The suspension banged. Rocks pelted the underbody like stone rain. She realized too late that this was a bad idea.
The sedans followed. Headlights filled the back window. She bumped across the dirt, swerved around a stack of coiled-up green rebar, white tags flashing past.
Muzzle flash flickered in her rearview mirror, through the cloud of dust behind her. Ghostly plumes of dirt stitched up from the dark ground into her headlights.
She gave Brutus as much gas as the tires would take in the soft dirt. It was like one long skid, swerving past concrete pipes, a knobby-wheeled backhoe, a giant blue trash bin stenciled with orange numbers. She steered too hard and almost lost control. Brutus slewed across the dirt, threatening to shake the steering wheel out of her hands. A giant dune of red dirt loomed up in front of her, crisscrossed with deep tire tracks, and she slid around it.
The sedan went around the other side and pulled up right alongside her. She looked over into the eyes of a young guy, good looking, thin mustache. He pointed a sleek black submachine gun at her head.
She braked, pulling hard on the wheel. The sedan passed by her, and the corner of Brutus’s bumper caught it, jerked it. Suddenly the sedan was sideways in front of her, sliding, dirt spraying up from the tires in a long brown plume.
She swerved away from it just as the sedan straightened out and went headfirst into the blade of a bulldozer.
She caught a glimpse of the crash in the light of the other sedan’s headlights, glass spraying, metal crumpling. Its back tires kicked up into the air, front tires folded inward.
She steered around a bloated metal fuel tank perched on chipped yellow legs. The ground dropped away on her left, banked up sharp on her right, leaving her driving on one tilted lane of dirt. The pills messed with her vision, made everything stretch out into the distance. Rough ground rushed toward her in Brutus’s headlights, vanished beneath the hood. The tires thumped over dips and rocks.
Bullets kicked up puffs of dirt all around her, surreal, like tiny dust devils drawn toward the light. Everything rattled and shook. The wheel felt alive in her hands. She couldn’t control Brutus, couldn’t steer him out of the path of the bullets. There was nowhere to go. Just the thin ledge of dirt stretching out ahead.
And then it ended, the dirt dropping away into total darkness. Nothing there but a yawning pit.
End of the road. Unfinished concrete columns rose up out of the blackness, the skeleton of a bridge.
On its own, her left foot went to the parking brake and stomped it to the floor the way Mitch had done it. She spun the wheel with the palms of her hands, around and around. Brutus slewed around, facing back the way she’d come. The motion pinned her against the door.
The sedan flashed past, the cloud of dirt behind it glowing red in its brake lights. Moonlight glinted off its windshield like a cold white spark.
Brutus shuddered to a stop pointing uphill. Dizziness kept everything spinning in her vision.
The sedan tried to stop, slid sideways and sailed into the abyss, showing her its underside, its snakelike exhaust and skeletal suspension. It seemed to hang in the air, grotesque, defying gravity. And then it was gone, instantly, as if it had never existed.
She blinked at the darkness where it had been. The sound of its impact washed over her, and an oily orange glow roiled up from below.
Geneva sat there, breathing hard. Her body started to shake, and she couldn’t make it stop.
TWENTY-TWO
Michael fought to stay calm. He’d been stripped down and strapped into a padded chair by his wrists and ankles. The blue-white lamp aimed at his face was blistering hot. He blinked past it to study his surroundings.
He was inside one of the cargo containers in the warehouse. He knew that much, at least. A stainless steel gurney sat nearby, covered in a white sheet. Beside that, a rolling tray lined with wickedly sharp tools. On the other side of the lamp, behind the glare, a guard stood motionless, the shadow of his rifle angled across his chest.
Michael knew what was coming. He had to be ready. He measured his breaths: in for four seconds, hold for two, out for four. He clenched and released his muscles, starting with his fingers and toes and working inward.
They would get nothing from him, he promised himself. A hollowness opened inside him as he realized he had nothing left to give them anyway.
Somewhere, a door opened and closed. Slow, casual footsteps approached.
Conspiracy of Angels Page 16