Conspiracy of Angels Read online

  “You sure about that?”

  “Well, if I’m wrong, then we’re in trouble, don’t you think?” Geneva reloaded his AK-47 and handed it to him. “Park it here. I’m going to go look.”

  “You crazy? They know we’re here.”

  “I’ll be right back.” She opened the door and hopped down. There was all that hardware back in the Bronco, but she was more comfortable with the pulser. She trusted it. She held it out in both hands, finger over the trigger, and headed into the shadows.

  The overhead lights had blown out, throwing the warehouse into a murky twilight. A bright light flashed somewhere at the far end of the warehouse, and something sizzled. There was something about the light that made her think of pulsers, but it was too bright, too blue. Like lightning in a snowstorm. She crept toward it.

  *

  The tiny yellow lightbulb inside the control box was just bright enough for Mitch to make out the words CATASTROPHIC OPTION in small thick letters.

  “Catastrophic Option,” he said to himself. “Your tax dollars at work.”

  Michael had thrown all of the black switches to the right, away from SAFE and over to THERMAL OVERLOAD. Glowing red digits counted down: 161, 160, 159. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what would happen when they hit zero.

  Mitch flipped the switches back and forth, but it didn’t do any good. The numbers kept counting down. It was already getting warm inside the vault.

  Behind him, blue energy flashed, and an electric sizzle filled the air. The stench of scorched metal burned his nose.

  Michael stepped closer to the door, checking out the smoking hole he’d just blown through it. The muzzle of his silver Cerenkov gun glowed a vibrant blue.

  “Hey,” Mitch pointed. “You want to turn off the self-destruct, here?”

  Michael didn’t look. “The controls freeze once you set the overload.”

  “Well, damn. What a great plan.”

  “I was planning on leaving. Which is why I’m trying to blast through the door.”

  Mitch pointed at the ticking numbers again. “Can’t you just zap this thing instead?”

  Michael turned around, eyebrows raised. “There’s a little issue there with the laws of physics.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.” Mitch walked over to him and reached for the Cerenkov gun. “Gimme that thing.”

  Michael held it away. “Try to process this thought. Right now, we’re essentially standing inside a giant electromagnetic bomb. Introducing charged particles into the system would be suicide.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” Mitch reached out and yanked the gun from Michael’s grasp. “Listen. This space gun blows holes through metal, right?”

  Michael gave him an irritated nod.

  “Good. And this room is basically a reinforced shipping container with power doors, right?”

  Michael narrowed his eyes. “I don’t follow.”

  “I used to rip these things off all the time.” Mitch aimed the glowing muzzle of the gun at the upper corner of the door, where the hinge would be. “Watch this.”

  *

  Geneva charged down the aisle between the numbered white containers, pulser aimed ahead of her. Another blue flash lit up, close this time. She skidded to a halt at the end of the aisle and peeked around.

  The giant white containers were set in rows that stretched out into the darkness. But the one in front of her was different—a smaller, blockier container that reminded her of an armored truck. Smoke curled from the edges of its door.

  Something thudded against the metal. It happened again, and the door budged slightly. She aimed the pulser at the center of it.

  Once more, something slammed against the inside of the door. With a screech, the door toppled outward and clanged to the floor. Mitch stumbled out in a cloud of smoke, coughing, carrying a shining metal weapon of some kind. Michael followed, wearing a lab coat and holding a submachine gun.

  Michael saw her, and his face lit up. “Genie!”

  She stood her ground and aimed the pulser at him. Emotions boiled up inside her: rage and hurt and joy all at the same time, mixing with the fear already pounding through her veins. It was too much. She froze.

  “Get down!” Mitch yelled, lifting the silver gun.

  She looked at him, instead of where he was aiming, not comprehending.

  Mitch fired, and a blue-white beam of energy blasted through the air past her, leaving a throbbing yellow afterimage in her vision and a puff of scorched air in her face.

  Michael tackled her, knocking her flat on the smooth concrete floor. Bullets chopped through the air where she’d stood. She caught a brief upside-down glimpse of three men with guns shooting at them from the shadows, muzzle flashes flickering like stars in a summer constellation.

  She rolled over onto her stomach and aimed her pulser at the closest one, a dark-haired guy with some kind of stubby assault rifle. Behind him stood a heavy guy with gray hair and steel-rimmed glasses.

  Arthur.

  Everything clicked. Her mind raced backward through time, rewinding. Arthur running away into the junkyard, carrying the black box. Arthur sitting in his cell, telling her he wasn’t CIA. His thumbprint on the suitcase, the green bar of light that beeped and opened it. He’d been using her all along. And she’d fallen for it.

  Michael had been right.

  He was crawling past her now, around the corner of a white container, out of the line of fire. “Genie! Come on!”

  Arthur turned her way. Their eyes locked.

  She pulsed him, the flash dazzling her eyes. Arthur and the gunman in front of him sprawled to the ground like broken toys. Geneva rolled after Michael, ending up on her belly, looking up at him.

  He sat with his back to the container, pain etched into his face, gripping his leg tight. Blood seeped through his fingers.

  “Michael!” She pried at his fingers. “You’re hit. Let me see.”

  “Now we’re even,” he said, smiling through the pain. “I knew you’d come back.”

  She saw that for once he was being level with her, and that only hurt even more. Because the truth was, she hadn’t come for him.

  Her eyes welled up, though she tried to stop it. Conflicting feelings churned inside her.

  Mitch ducked around the corner next to them, breathing hard. “I think they’re circling around. We gotta move it.”

  “How did you get in here?” Michael said to her.

  She pointed back the way she’d come. “Rocket launcher. Truck. In that order.”

  “Excellent. How far is it?”

  “Back to the truck?” She backtracked in her head. It was far. She thought about his leg and hesitated. “We can get you there.”

  “But not fast enough.” His face went grim. “Don’t worry. There’s another way out, the opposite direction, but only one person will fit.”

  “We’ll get you to the truck. Mitch and I, we can carry you.”

  “No. I’ll only slow you down enough to make you a target.” He popped the magazine out of the submachine gun and checked it. It was only half-full. He slid it back in.

  “That won’t last long,” Geneva said.

  Michael smiled grimly and pushed himself up onto one foot. “I’ll pick something up on the way.”

  “Michael, no. Can you even walk?”

  “I’ll make it.” He slid his hand around the back of her neck. His eyes were intense. “Don’t argue with me. There isn’t enough time. Just trust me, this once.”

  She fought away tears. “I do.”

  He kissed her. The warmth of it lasted long after he let her go. “Go. Now.” He pushed her away.

  “Michael—”

  “I’ll find you later. Go!”

  Mitch put a hand on her shoulder. “Which way?”

  She took one last look at Michael limping around the corner into the darkness. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. “Follow me.”

  She led him through the sprawling maze of containers,
toward the flames and smoke from the explosion. Far behind them, gunshots rang out, brief staccato bursts, heading in the opposite direction. Shouts echoed in the vast space, muffled by the flames. Tires squeaked, and the Bronco’s engine grumbled somewhere nearby.

  They rounded a corner, and headlights loomed out of the smoke. The Bronco squealed to a stop and Lanny leaned out the window. “Yo, let’s move it! They’re right behind me!”

  Geneva got in the passenger side and Mitch squeezed in next to her, pushing her onto the plastic console between the seats. Lanny hit the gas before they even had the door shut.

  Gunshots cut loose behind them, and Geneva ducked on instinct. Bullets pinged off of the truck.

  “Get us outta here,” Mitch said. “The whole place is gonna blow!”

  “What?” Geneva said.

  He shook his head. “Maybe a minute, tops. Maybe not even.”

  A square of sunlight swung into view ahead of them as Lanny turned a corner and headed for the ruined garage door. The turn slid her against Mitch.

  She tried to climb over him. “Let me out. Lanny, stop the truck!”

  Mitch fended her off and pointed a finger at Lanny. “Don’t stop!”

  They flew through the doorway and down the ramp. The truck’s suspension clanged when they hit the bottom, and everything inside bounced. Lanny wheeled them around the building and hit the gas.

  Geneva fought with Mitch. “Let me out. I’m not leaving him there!”

  “You can’t go back. He’ll make it. He’s got another way out.”

  “He was lying!” She felt the tears running down her face before she could stop them. “Don’t you know that? He was lying!”

  Mitch looked from her to Lanny and back to her. She could tell from his expression that he didn’t know.

  And why would he? She’d only just figured it out. Maybe there was another way out. Maybe there wasn’t. It didn’t really matter. Michael had wanted her to get away, no matter what. So he’d stayed behind to distract them.

  She turned and looked back just as something detonated inside the building. A rippling flash lit it from within, shining out through the few windows around its front entrance. Glass and flames exploded from every opening. A single rolling shockwave, like distant thunder, shook the truck.

  “Michael,” she whispered.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  They drove for what seemed like hours, until the city had dwindled to suburbs and then the occasional mountain town. Traffic was light on the rural highway, and Mitch didn’t see any signs of pursuit. Not yet, anyway.

  The Bronco was cold, and rattled over every bump. It smelled like cheap cigarettes and stale French fries. It reminded Mitch of the past. Back when he used to drive other people’s trucks. It wasn’t a happy reminder.

  Lanny kept his hands tight on the wheel. He didn’t say much. He sat hunched in the seat, eyes big, looking up in the rearview constantly. Mitch had never seen Lanny so shook up in his life.

  “Hey. Lanny, you okay?”

  “Yeah,” he said, quick, “I’m good.” No smile, no easy smart-aleck remarks. He looked up in the rearview again and back to the road.

  “You sure?”

  Lanny didn’t say anything for a minute. Then he turned and stared at Mitch through bloodshot eyes. “Let me get you up to speed, man. Bad enough, getting shot at with machine guns and shit. I had to drag you out of the pit of hell, man. I’ll be lucky I don’t spend the rest of my days running for cover every time I see a dude in a gray suit.”

  A horn blared up ahead.

  “Lanny, watch the road.”

  “I’m good.” Lanny steered the truck back into the lane. “You all sitting over there asking me am I okay. Hell, no. Man, every time I run into you, it’s like my life starts to flash before my eyes.”

  Mitch cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

  “Speak up, man.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “Better be. Let me give you some advice. Next time you get caught by the damn KGB, call somebody else.”

  The truck went over a bump, and everything rattled and squeaked. Neither of them said anything for a while.

  Finally, Mitch broke the quiet. “You, uh, mind if I turn on the heat? Cold in here.”

  “That’s ‘cause we up at like ten thousand feet, man. Don’t blame me. This was your idea.”

  Mitch played with the switches until he got the heat to warm up his feet. He turned around and looked back at Geneva.

  The Bronco’s back seat had been folded up to make room for all the weapons and the bags of stuff they’d bought on their little shopping spree. Geneva sat on a ratty old blanket between a pile of guns and a backpack, her knees drawn up to her chin, staring out the tailgate window. She held the pulser tight in her hands. The sights glowed green.

  She’d stopped crying a while ago, as they were leaving the city. Now, the mountains slid past the windows, green pine trees and brown rock. Wide slopes of dry grass scattered with patches of green.

  “Hey,” Mitch said. “You all right back there?”

  She didn’t even blink. Just kept staring out the dirty back window.

  “Listen, I was thinking. We can stop in one of these little mountain towns. Get a bite to eat. What do you think? Some coffee? Or, uh, Gatorade. Any flavor you want. One of those bottles so big, it’s got a handle on it. What do you say?”

  She blinked. Leaned her head against the window, let it bounce along with the movement of the truck.

  Mitch watched her for a while. He felt torn up inside. She’d come to get him, gotten Lanny and come roaring in like hell on wheels to save him. This little girl, all spit and vinegar, had next to nothing left in her life, and she’d put it all on the line to rescue him. She’d gambled it, and they’d both come out alive, but that was about it.

  She’d saved him, but he didn’t feel like he deserved it.

  What bothered him most of all, when Michael was standing there with a bullet in his leg, was the look on Geneva’s face. That raw, innocent idealism that told him that despite everything, she couldn’t handle losing Michael. And clear as day, Mitch had thought to Michael: You don’t deserve her.

  It was a terrible thing to think about a guy who ended up sacrificing himself to save them, and Mitch hated himself for it. But he couldn’t help it. Michael had used her every way he could: used her strength, used her knowledge, used her trust. She was too young and angry to know the difference between need and love.

  Mitch rubbed his eyes. Jesus, what the hell did he know, anyway? Maybe she really did love Michael. And that would be worse, because his death was tearing her apart.

  Mitch needed her in one piece, so she could lead him to the cabin where Jocelyn died. So that maybe, if he looked hard enough, he could find some answers. Figure out how to kill the Archangel, before it killed them. Simply hoping to get a clear shot with the Cerenkov gun wasn’t much of a plan. He needed more. There had to be something at the cabin.

  It was a long shot, but it was all he had. And he hated himself for wanting it so bad that he was willing to put Geneva on the line to do it. She’d done enough. More than enough. He couldn’t ask her to do any more.

  But he had to.

  He turned to Lanny. “Next town we get to, fill up on gas. I’ll get us some coffee.”

  Lanny looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Man, after this, that better be one damn fine cup of coffee.”

  As it turned out, when they finally got to a gas station, the best they could find was the last half of a pot that smelled like it had been boiling down all day. And it hadn’t been that great to begin with.

  Mitch filled up three big paper cups while Lanny shopped around for Pringles and dry roasted nuts. Mitch loaded up Geneva’s coffee with sugar and half-and-half. He left his and Lanny’s black.

  Lanny set a pile of junk food down on the counter and leaned in close to him. “Look, man, you know what I think? We ain’t going to make it up there to that cabin you been talking a
bout, that’s for damn sure.”

  Mitch put plastic lids on the cups. “Why’s that?”

  “‘Cause of the girl, man. Look at her.” Lanny pointed outside to the truck. Geneva was a dark smudge huddled against the dirty window. “She is shut down, man. Totally. Can’t function no more. She’s done.”

  “She’s a tough girl.”

  “I don’t doubt that. Hey, any girl that can handle a rocket launcher, she got my respect. All right? But look. I ever tell you about my man Anton?”

  “Who the hell is Anton?”

  “Anton, man. My bro. Before Clean. Back in the day, when you were doing time. Used to be, every time you turn around, Anton had my back. You know what I’m saying? Was a good man, up until he died.”

  “So Anton’s dead.”

  “Rest his soul. Dude loved his hot dogs. Every day, he’s out there with the hot dog man, he’s eatin’. Chili dogs, Coney Island dogs, he don’t care, long as he could put mustard on them, he was eating dogs.”

  Mitch picked up the coffee and headed for the cashier. “Heart attack or something?”

  “No. What killed him was, see, he was best friends with the hot dog man. They grew up on the same street. They were like family, you know? They’d be standing out there all afternoon, shooting the breeze, serving up hot dogs. I told Anton, you like it so much, man, you go work for the hot dog man instead of me. What am I paying you for, anyway? You know?”

  The lady behind the counter rang them up. Mitch paid with a hundred. “So you fired him.”

  “No, man. Hot dog man’s like family. You can’t mess with family. What killed Anton, he was standing on the corner one day, drunk dude in a big old Buick hops the curb and hits the hot dog cart. Hot dog man got trapped underneath the car. Man died.”

  “Jesus. What about Anton?”

  “Anton had to watch it, man. Watch his bro die right in front of him, just like that. Didn’t talk to nobody about it. Never said a word. I told him, take some time off, go get yourself together. Next time I saw him was in the paper. Killed himself.” Lanny picked up the plastic bag of junk food from the counter and headed outside.

  Mitch followed him. “So what are you trying to say to me?”