Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm (19 page)

Same evening, 8:49
P.M.
CET

Calais, Province of France, GG

I make the introductions and give my partner a super-brief version of my evening that sounds almost like a child telling her parent about a stray cat. I'm tempted to say, “This sniper followed me home, can we keep him?” but I'm still wigged about our new acquaintance.

Anything to do with Fredericks is suspect. Falcon seems like he genuinely wants to escape the man's clutches, but for all we know Falcon has been secretly equipped with remote-controlled surveillance gear or a tracker or a bomb or something.

Hmm, tracker.

“Falcon,” I ask, “do you have a No-Jack installed?”

“Of course, but I disabled it.”

My starlight vision shows how Brando glares at Falcon's shadowy shape. Marie has been listening to us talk. When we stop, she says, “Why don't I go inside and let you people sort this out.” She switches on the garage's overhead light, walks into her house, and gently closes the kitchen door. Then she screams.

I run inside. Victor points his weapon down at the ground and says to Marie, “Garbo, I'm so sorry. I didn't recognize you at first.”

Marie leans on the sink with her hand over her chest and breathlessly says, “I'm all right, Victor. You surprised me is all.”

Jeez, what a night.

Falcon and Brando follow me in from the garage. My partner exclaims, “Hey, Victor's back.” He turns to me. “Anything
else
I should know?”

“Yeah,” I say. “There's a big rabbit stuck in the chimney who says he's late for tea.”

“Wiseass.” Brando crosses the room and gives Victor one of those manly half-hug handshakes. “How are ya, Victor?”

“I'm good, Darwin.” Victor puts a brotherly arm around Marie. “Have you been taking good care of my friend Garbo?”

Brando sits at the kitchen table and grabs Falcon's beer. “More like the other way around. She's been awesome.”

We all look at Marie. After a moment, she blushes and says, “Oh, for goodness sakes, stop staring.” She bustles over to one of the cabinets. “It's been quite an evening. How about I make us something to eat? Victor, can you reach that big pan for me?”

While the very important asset and the charismatic rebel leader set to cooking a late dinner, I sit next to my partner, who swigs his beer and studies Falcon.

“Wow, Scarlet, I can't believe how much this kid looks like your dad.”

I hit Brando's arm with my watch. “No shit, brainiac.”

He winces and rubs his arm. Then he asks Falcon, “Hey, can you hack our commphones so we can use them locally without Fredericks tracking us?”

Falcon presses his lips together and looks at the ceiling. Then he says, “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Okay, great.” Brando mulls this over for a few moments. “Falcon, would you excuse us for a minute? I need to talk to Scarlet.”

“Sure thing,” He tosses his head toward the street. “I'll go take a look around outside.” Falcon flips his dark hood up over his head and goes back out to the garage. His silhouetted figure strolls down the driveway.

Marie and Victor chat at the sink while they rinse vegetables. The water splishes and gurgles noisily down the drain.

Patrick takes my hand and leads me into the living room. He pulls me close and leans his mouth right up against my ear as he whispers, “Falcon could be from anywhere. I don't like this at all.”

I turn my head so my mouth is next to Patrick's ear, “Me neither, but he
did
help us out. And he sincerely seems to wanna get away from Fredericks and his skunko version of ARI. I can't say I blame the kid. What should we do?”

“Normally I'd check in with ExOps for direction, but if our comms are being intercepted, we have to stay offline and figure this out ourselves. I have no idea what the kid will do if we tell him to beat it. If he's telling the truth, he'll be on his own and really vulnerable. If he's lying, then he'll keep following us.”

“Or,” I whisper, “I could punch his ticket and bury him in a bog.”

My partner considers this, then whispers, “Whoever sent Falcon will send someone else if we kill him.” He thinks for a few moments, then says, “I'm sure we can find something to do with a top-shelf sniper.” He taps his foot on the floor a couple of times. “Let's keep him with us, but don't tell him anything we don't have to.” Patrick inhales deeply. “Now that we've met Falcon, I'd say it was Fredericks who betrayed us in London. Which means we've got to get out of Calais tonight.”

I lean back so he can see me nod my agreement. His mouth is set in a tight line. I whisper, “Why did you risk coming back from Brussels so soon?”

“You didn't answer my comms and I was worried sick.” He takes one of my hands into his. “I thought something had happened to you.”

I put my other hand on the side of Patrick's head and turn his face toward me. I press my body against him and plant my open lips on his mouth. His tongue flicks against mine and fires twin jolts of electricity down the length of my spine. The lightning bolts ricochet off the carpet and shimmy up my legs until they meet at the tops of my thighs. I moan and have to push away before I commit international perversion right there in Marie's parlor.

I take a second to recover while I stare into my partner's eyes. Then I squeeze his hand. “We'd better get going. Let's bring Falcon inside and tell Marie and Victor we're leaving.”

Half an hour later we've packed up the food, batteries, and other supplies Marie gave us. We can comm with each other now that Falcon has reprogrammed our comm gear to operate on a private network.

I've had my commphone for years. There's always been someone to call for help if I got into trouble. It makes me feel naked to be off the grid like this, but it's the only way to make sure hostiles can't monitor our comms.

It wasn't until Falcon reset my commphone that I asked Brando what made him think Falcon could do this for us. My partner shrugged and gave me a two-word answer: “Your dad.” He meant Falcon has inherited Dad's technical aptitude and probably other things too. I hope the poor kid didn't pick up my father's love of drinking himself insensible.

While we get ourselves ready to bug out, Marie goes into cooking overdrive. She won't hear of us leaving empty-handed, and her experience with the Circle has taught her how to make very portable food that will keep without being refrigerated.

The three of us gather in her kitchen and pile our backpacks and gear on the table. Victor walks in from the garage and adds his field pack and ammo satchel to our luggage heap.

“Uhh, Victor, sir,” Brando says, “we're kind of on the lam. It might not be a great idea to come with us.”

“Hah!” Victor's voice booms. “Hunted, cut off, and on the run, eh?” He spreads his arms out. “Welcome to my world.” His big smile sweeps away much of the anxiety filling the room. “But Victor Eisenberg doesn't go with you.” He draws himself up to his somehow impressive five foot seven. “You go with Victor Eisenberg.” He slings his satchel over his shoulder and points outside. “The Circle needs your help.”

I glance over at Brando to see what he thinks. He shrugs and says, “Sure, why not? You know the region, and it fits our overall mission. Plus, if I were Fredericks, it'd be the last thing I'd expect.”

We pack Marie's field rations into our bags. Then she hugs us all good-bye, even Falcon, who just met her. She gives me and Brando an extra hug each. “Good-bye, young ones. Thank you so much for your help today.”

“Thank
you,
Garbo. We owe our lives to you.”

She waves her hand. “Pah, it was nothing. You are easy guests. Besides, having you here made me feel safer than I have in years.” She turns to Victor. “Do not let anything happen to them, Mr. Eisenberg.”

He beams. “I think they will see to it nothing happens to
me
, Ms. Van Daan.”

We say another round of good-byes in the garage. Marie tries to convince us to take her car. We politely say no thank you.

She presses us. “How do you plan to get around?”

Considering Marie is a CIA stringer and an underground slave smuggler, she can still be preciously innocent sometimes.

“Marie,” I answer, “we're Americans. If we need something, we'll steal it.”

This cracks her up. She's still laughing as she waves good-bye to us and goes back inside.

The four of us walk away from her brightly lit house and slink into the night. At the end of her street we turn toward the train station a few blocks away. Our first task is to get out of the area.

A few minutes later we enter the train station's parking lot, which is full of free cars.

“All right, boys.” I rub my hands together. “Mamma wants leather seats.”

CORE MIS-ANGEL-3922

ANGEL SIT-REP: IRELAND. 22 February 1981

Three days later, Thursday, March 5, 1981, 5:11
P.M.
CET

Arras, Province of France, GG

My ears ring, the ground shakes, and my stomach barely hangs on to the lunch I stole earlier today. The blast's shock wave is so intense my entire body feels like it's been flattened in a vise. The sky rains shredded concrete, shattered glass, and splintered steel beams. It looks mighty loud.

When I was at Camp A-Go-Go, they taught me 90 feet from a deafening explosion is 210 feet too close. They didn't go into why it's too close, or if they did, I wasn't paying attention. Either way, I find out now because I really go deaf. I also lose my sense of up and down, along with my ability to form coherent sentences and even single words.

“Scarlet, you all right?” I can't tell if it's Brando or Falcon.

“Yeh, shuzz kug thuff.”
Fuck, I can't even comm straight right now.

“What?”

“Ee'm oka!”
Oh, forget it.

We've begun our ROAR Tour through the former battlegrounds of World War I and brought the Rising to the Somme. Our venue today is the Staatszeiger regional supply depot in Pas-de-Calais. Victor met yesterday with the local head of the Circle of Zion, who recommended hitting this SZ installation to help disrupt the government's response to the rebellion.

This job began before dawn when we stole a trunkful of TNT from an SZ armory on the outskirts of town. I crashed the gate in our stolen Volkswagen, and Falcon shot the guards from a treetop two hundred yards up the road. He kept everyone suppressed while I loaded the ka-boomies into our car and tore ass back out through the front gate. It was basically a large-scale Smash 'n Grab. We transferred our volatile booty into another stolen car and ditched the first vehicle in an abandoned old barn a few miles north.

After our morning raid, we went on a shoplifting spree at a big supermarket here in Arras. Commphones, teamwork, and professional espionage training are more than a match for the security measures at any civilian facility, so we treat these places as our personal pantries. My favorite is when Victor distracts the employees and guards with his impressive collection of German jokes while Falcon, Brando, and I stuff our pockets full.

Ever hear the one about the Austrian who married his rooster?

Vic breaks off his routine after the three of us waddle out the exit.

We spent our afternoon hiding near this supply depot, waiting for the guards to change shifts. There's always a lot of grab-assing during a changeover. Ironically, even though there are more of them, they pay less attention. We dashed through their perimeter, lock-picked a side door, and snuck down to the cellar. Without blueprints we had to guess about where to set our TNT, so we used all of it.

Falcon escorted Brando back outside, where they got themselves into cover. I stayed behind to make sure nobody came downstairs and disarmed the bombs. Once the boys were ready to trigger the detonator, I ran for it. I really thought I was far enough away when I told my partner to light ‘er up. Apparently I miscalculated.

The ground has stopped clobbering me, but I'm still too dizzy to walk. I crawl on all fours until a pair of hands tuck under my armpits and help me onto my feet. It's Brando. He wraps one of my arms around his shoulders and lugs me away from the burning building. Falcon backpedals next to us. He's drawn his pistol and covers our exit.

My partner lugs me across a field to where Victor waits in our stolen Mercedes and puts me in the backseat. Then he slides in next to me. Falcon hops up front with Victor, who drives us away as fast as he can. The acceleration is the last straw for my poor stomach.

Oh, God, here it comes!

I get the window open just in time to puke all over the outside of our gigantic luxury motorcar. I flop back into my seat. My skin shimmers with a stinging sweat.

Brando takes my hand. “You sure you're all right?”

“Guh.” My mouth tastes like flat orange soda, stomach acid, and half-digested pretzels. “Yeah, I'll be fine.” At least my hearing has come back.

Ahh, the glamour of a career in espionage.

Victor studies me in his rearview mirror. “You don't look well, Scarlet.”

“All part of the act.” I take a slow breath. “How'd we do?”

Brando says, “Well, half the building flew away. I'm not sure how many of the contents were destroyed, but we achieved our objective.”

Falcon nods and quietly says, “That was outrageously rad.”

The kid looks and sounds like my dad and he inherited my dad's chops with weapons and technology, but he's got his own way of expressing himself. Plus, he's
so
much younger-looking than I ever saw my dad. These two aspects of my new teammate have made it easier for me to accept Falcon as an individual. Maybe my pre-cloning-era mind has decided Falcon is a long-lost cousin from my dad's side of the family and left it at that.

He's got my family's sense of humor, for sure. I came up with an acronym for Really Outrageous and Radical to tease Falcon about saying “outrageous” and “rad” so much. He loved it and christened Victor's series of missions the ROAR Tour.

Our tour's goal runs parallel with the objectives of Operation ANGEL, namely, to foster an environment of fear, chaos, and confusion within the Gestapo and the SZ. Victor's long-term intention is to spread the slave rebellion across as much territory as possible. His immediate objective is to give the Circle of Zion a head start on the Krauts. To this end we've been tactically speed-blasting our way south from Calais.

Brando has his eyes closed as he says, “Victor, what do you think? Should we go to Saint-Quentin or Amiens next?”

“Whichever is closer.”

“Saint-Quentin it is.” Brando opens his eyes and says to me, “Scarlet, do you think you can hold down some food?”

“Maybe one of the biscuits we got from Marie.”

My partner rummages in our stolen food cooler. Victor peeks in the rearview mirror again but not at me. He's checking out whatever's behind us.

“Police!” Victor calls out.

The rest of us spin in our seats. There's a single police car following us with its lights flashing. I haul Li'l Bertha out of her holster while Brando clambers up to the front passenger seat and Falcon wriggles in back with me. Falcon and I open our windows and face backward.

I comm, “Darwin, what do you think? Should we take them out or let them pull us over?”

My partner responds, “If a close encounter goes wrong, they'll have seen all our faces and we'll have to kill them. You'd better put on those bandanas and shoot out their tires.”

Falcon and I each slide a striped bandana out of our hip pockets and tie them on to our faces, like bandits from a Western. Falcon puts on a pair of sunglasses to hide his eyes.

“Ready?” he comms.

“Ready,” I comm back. “I'll hit the front passenger side.”

“Roger. I'll take out the driver's side.”

We both lean out our windows and take aim. The police car has pulled up close behind us, so this shot will be easy. I dump a .45-caliber slug into the passenger-side front tire. Nothing happens. I fire a second bullet, and the tire's center tread splits wide open and the steel wheel clanks onto the road. A second later Falcon's shots pop open the driver-side tire, and the entire front end of the police car dives onto the pavement in a shrieking cloud of sparks.

Time for a quick exit and a new ride. We've compared notes and figured out I'm the best getaway driver in the group. I've got the most biorobotic upgrades, and I've spent so much time at the track I could be a traffic cone.

Victor slows down while I climb up front. I scoot onto his lap and take the controls while he slides out from under me. Brando gives Victor his seat and transfers himself to the back with Falcon, who has left his bandana on in case he needs to provide cover fire. I floor the accelerator and leave it there. We flash down the freeway so fast we could probably outrun a small airplane.

Brando spots a service station at the next exit. Our car's brake pads cook down to nothing as I sling us off the highway and into the station. By now it's five-thirty
P.M.
, and the place is closed. The parking area around the garage is filled with vehicles in for repairs. I park our Mercedes behind the low building, and we fan out across the parking lot to find our next ride. Victor swaps the Mercedes's license plates with another car. Then he casually strolls toward the road to keep watch.

“This Opel seems like a good one,” Brando comms.

Bah, Opel. We can do better than that.
Then I see a gorgeous black Audi sedan with alloy wheels. There isn't any visible damage. Maybe it's in for a something optional like a tune-up. I try the door. It's open.

“Boys, over here!” I slip into the front seat and hunt for keys. Sun visor? Floor mat? No dice. I slip my hand under the dash and rip the ignition wires out of the lock. Brando and Falcon chuck our bags into the Audi's trunk. I get the ignition hot-wired and the big engine growls to life. My partner gets in front with me while Victor and Falcon sit in back.

I slide my seat forward and adjust the mirrors as I pilot us out of the lot. Brando directs me back to the A26, and our ROAR Tour is off to bring our crime spree—uh, I mean the Rising—to Saint-Quentin.

CORE MIS-ANGEL-4271

ANGEL SIT-REP: HOLLAND. 1 March 1981