Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm Page 4

We thunder out of the turn. My partner yells, “Turn Two. Right, 60 in, opens, 80 out.” When Brando says “opens” he means the turn gets broader as we go around.

  I twist the wheel ninety feet away from the turn and downshift from fifth to third to transfer the car’s weight forward. All that weight up front makes Cokey plow into the corner. When we’re almost at the pavement’s outer edge, I stomp the gas and shift the car’s weight back onto her rear wheels. The unloaded front tires suddenly grip tighter than a Scotsman’s wallet and whip us through Turn Two.

  “Turn Three. Right, 70 in, opens, 75 out. Jump at apex.”

  I slither us into Turn Three with my right toes on the gas and my right heel on the brakes. My left foot peppers the clutch as needed to keep our revs up. I’m doing great until we pass the turn’s midpoint, where a sharp little bump kicks Cokey into the air and screws up my driving line. The car flies sideways and lands inches from the outside edge. I overcorrect, and the Bimmer tilts onto her two left wheels. Brando and I both lean the other way. I jiggle the wheel left to get us back on all fours, but now we’re headed off the track.

  I haul up the emergency brake, crank the steering wheel right and then left, then shove the e-brake down again. This throws us into a sideways skid. I look over my left shoulder to see where we’re going.

  God almighty, we’ll be lucky if there’s any rubber at all on the tires after this one. My training has taught me to not to slow down when faced with an all-out mental-patient driving disaster like this. If I even breathe on the brakes right now, we’ll spin out of control. I bury the gas pedal and hold my breath. Brando grasps his door handle and hangs on for dear life.

  We exit Turn Three at seventy-nine miles per hour in a massive cloud of scorched rubber.

  “Hah!” I wipe my hand across my forehead. “Okay, El Brando, what’s next?”

  We’re doing so well that I only need to drive like Maniac Junior for the next five turns. We come off Turn Eight and enter the main straightaway, ready for Lap Two.

  We receive a comm from the Training Control Center. “Scarlet and Darwin, switch seats. Lap Two will be a target lap.”

  Brando calls out, “Fire drill!” and grabs the steering wheel. I pull up my legs and crouch on my seat. Then I drag my partner bodily across the center console. He keeps his eyes forward as his legs unfold onto the pedals. Meanwhile I transfer to his seat and pluck my pistol out of her holster.

  I click Li’l Bertha into my left palm, and she jacks into my internal systems. Her status cluster appears in my Eyes-Up display to show me her current settings and how much ammo she has left. I swing my head around to see what my field of vision will be for this lap. With the convertible top down, I have clear firing lanes in all directions except to my direct left, where my partner sits.

  Brando prudently brakes into Turn One, neatly clips the top of the corner, and smoothly accelerates out. The tires barely chirp.

  “You call that driving?” I tease.

  “Look, Miss Hot-Rodder, I clocked the same time as you did without scrubbing a year off the tires.”

  “But you’ll never make the highlight reel!”

  He smiles and then presses his lips together while he sets up for Turn Two. As he brakes into the corner, he comms, “Target! Right side, yellow on red.”

  I spin my head and aim Li’l Bertha. A red sign with a big yellow dot has popped out of the ground twenty-five yards away. I hit it with a short burst, and the target falls back where it came from.

  Brando races the Cokemobile around the course and calls out each target. I’m nailing all of them, but I’ve barely got time to aim and fire before I have to get ready for the next one.

  We exit Turn Eight and return to the main straightaway. I sit back, smugly thinking we’re done, when Brando looks in his side-view mirror. He cries out, “Target far left, yellow on black.” I swing my head around. A yellow-and-black sign is already behind us, plus it’s very low to the ground.

  While Brando says, “Crap, we were almost perfect, too,” I stand on my seat and climb onto the car’s trunk. Biting wind hits me like a refrigerated hurricane, but the extra height I get from standing up here gives me a better angle. I hook my foot into the roll-over bar and sight on our shrinking target. I unload Li’l Bertha at full auto until she clicks empty. The target tips over.

  “Got it!”

  “Scarlet, sit down! We’ve gotta get back inside to finish.”

  We’re too close to the hangar. I don’t have time to sit down normally because I might tumble off when my partner turns. If Brando brakes, I’ll fly off the front. If we overshoot, we’ll fail—definitely not an option.

  I wrap my arms over my head and dive into the passenger-side foot well. I end up with my legs on the seat and most of my body smooshed under the dashboard. The engine is much louder down here, and hot air blows into my ear. I feel the car swerve right, speed up, then lurch to a stop. All I can see are my legs and feet, and past them the hangar’s metal roof.

  My partner’s grinning face appears from the driver’s side. “You all right, Hot-Rod?”

  “Did you know there are tiny men down here who make the heater work?

  “How do they do that?”

  “They eat bowls of hot peppers and fart into the ductwork.”

  He laughs and tries to extract me, but I’m jammed in here so awkwardly that rescuing me requires him and one of the ExOps training administrators to haul me out by my knees.

  “Hey,” I say to the admin as I dust off. “What’s with that last target? It didn’t pop up until we were past it!”

  The admin gently shrugs. “Yeah, well … it wasn’t actually a firing target.”

  Brando stands behind me and swacks car-floor crumbs off my jacket. He asks, “So we weren’t supposed to shoot it?”

  “You were barely supposed to see it. We use it to record how you’d react to having missed one.”

  “Has anybody ever shot it before?”

  The admin slowly shakes his head. I hold my hand out behind me, and Brando slaps me a low-five.

  06

  Two days later, Friday, January 23, 1981, 5:30 A.M. EST

  2906 Key Boulevard, Arlington, Virginia, USA

  “Mom!” I holler. “Where’s my pants?”

  “Which ones?” she yells from the laundry room downstairs.

  I stand up from my duffel bag so I can shout more easily. “The black ones with all the pockets!”

  “Hang on, they’re coming out of the dryer!”

  Dammit, I’m gonna miss my flight.

  I shovel two fistfuls of socks and underwear out of my dresser and cram them into my bag. I use my Eyes-Up display to reread the packing checklist Brando commed me last night. Let’s see: waterproof outerwear, thermal shirts and pants, commando makeup, repair kit for my Mods, three dozen vials of neuroinjector drugs, Li’l Bertha, and—oh, right!

  Almost forgot my mission briefing. ExOps requires its agents to keep track of their classified materials, naturally. I have to give my briefing files back to Cyrus or I won’t be cleared to leave the country.

  I hop over my duffel bag and snag my mission briefing folder from the floor next to my nightstand. I peek under my bed to see if I’ve forgotten anything else. It’s still pretty tidy down there. We only moved into this house two weeks ago, and I haven’t had time to subject my bedroom to my usual Bad Housekeeping routine.

  Cleo hustles in with my black pants draped over her arm and a small red felt pouch in her hand. “Here are your pants, honey. Do you have everything else?”

  “Thanks. I think that’s everything.” I stuff the warm pants in my duffel.

  “Here.” Mom hands me the red felt pouch. “I got you something for your trip to wherever Cyrus is sending you this time.” Cleo could find out where I’m going, but she takes mission security as seriously as everyone else at ExOps, so she hasn’t looked. I won’t tell her unless I have to, but from all my cold weather gear and the ongoing political shitstorm with Germany, she prob
ably knows it’s Western Europe somewhere.

  I open the little pouch. It’s … jewelry? I take out something metallic and cool. I open my hand. It’s my dad’s watch.

  “Oh, Mom,” I whisper as tears spring into my eyes.

  Cleo smiles and reaches out to stroke my cheek. “I gave it to your father when we got married. It’s durable and easy to read, so I knew he’d like it. He used to tinker with it in his shop, and he wore it during some of his missions.” She takes a deep breath. “I want you to have it.”

  I can’t think of what to say, so I put it on. It’s a man’s Bulova with a black face and white numbers and arms. It dwarfs my wrist. There’s no way this watch will fit me. I hold my arm down, ready for it to fall off, but it bumps into my hand and stays there. I turn my wrist over and look at the strap.

  Mom says, “I had a smaller strap put on and new batteries installed.”

  I say, “How long have you been planning this?”

  “It was with some of your father’s things at the house in Crystal City, and I brought it to a jeweler to get it sized for you. I’d actually forgotten about it. They called a few days ago to remind me to pick it up.”

  I study the watch and imagine Dad wearing it on his jobs. The dial says “Waterproof,” and I decide to never take it off, even when I’m in the shower. I wrap my arms around Cleo and kiss her cheek. “Thanks, Mom. I love it!”

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Oh! There’s your ride.”

  Beep! Beep!

  A cab has pulled up outside, ready to take me to the airport. I open my bedroom window and shout, “Be right down!” The streetlight illuminates the driver in front and my partner in back.

  Cleo tries to pick up my bag for me. She grunts and oofs at its weight. She can barely even drag it.

  “Mom, how about I take it and you get the door for me?”

  She lets go and brushes a stray hair off her face. “Ha-hm, yes, how about we do that.”

  I crouch down, wrap the bag’s carrying strap over my shoulder, and stand up. The heavy bag swings into my legs as I schlep it downstairs and out to the street. Mom waits with me while the cabbie dumps my duffel in the trunk.

  Brando rolls down his window. “Good morning, Mrs. Nico.”

  “Hello, Patrick. Are you all ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am. How do you like your new house?”

  “I’m still getting used to it, but I think we’ll be happy here.”

  The cab driver slams the trunk shut while I bop into the backseat. Brando slides over to make room for me.

  Mom leans down. “You two be careful.” Her voice is anxious, but she’s being brave. “Come back safe.”

  Brando and I both say, “We will.”

  The cab drives us away. Cleo wraps her arms around herself and goes back inside. I check my dad’s Bulova.

  My partner says, “Hey, nice watch.”

  “Thanks. My mom gave it to me.”

  He says with a wry grin, “I’ve never seen brass knuckles that tell time.”

  “Yes, it’s huge, wise guy. You’d better hope I don’t brass knuckle you with it. Besides, you’ll thank me when we’re in—” I glance at the driver. “—uh, where we’re headed, and we can tell time in the dark.”

  “I thought your Eyes-Up display had a clock in it.”

  I face Brando and shoot daggers from my eyes. It’s too dim for him to see them, so I say, “It’s my father’s watch, dummy! Plus, I can’t hit smart-asses like you with my Eyes-Up display.” I whack him on his arm with my big-ass Bulova.

  “Ow!” He winces and rubs his arm. “Fine! I agree. An old mechanical wristwatch is a perfect addition to our collection of digital state-of-the-art covert activities equipment.”

  I swing at him again, but he quickly holds up his carry-all bag and blocks my strike. The bag—his constant companion—is a forest green military-style tactical pack he picked up in Berlin. The outer surface is an orgy of buckles, zippers, and straps. The flexible design allows it to hang over one shoulder, strap on like a backpack, or be slung across the chest, which is how my partner tends to wear it. Like my late partner’s Bag of Tricks, Brando’s tactical bag holds way more stuff than I’d think possible. A big X of black electrical tape on the front flap covers the hole I made when I thought he said it was bulletproof, which is why I call it the X-bag, although I’ve got other names for it, too.

  He opens his shoulder shed and rummages around inside. Then he hands me an update to our mission brief. I try to read the paper in the passing streetlights. I can’t catch any of it. My night vision is good for unlit spaces, but it isn’t so great for reading. Then an old memory floats up in my mind.

  Some nights my dad would pass out on the couch down in his shop either from too much work or too much drink. In the morning, if I found him down there, I’d snuggle my little grade-school self up against him. I left the lights off. I’d already learned my lesson about waking him up with bright lights when he’d had some drinks. If Dad wasn’t conked out, he’d put one of his arms around me and mumble, “Hi, Hot-Shot,” and gently run his fingers through my hair. One morning I fiddled around with his watch and found a tiny button that made the whole face light up. I spent the next little while flashing Morse code messages to myself.

  My attention returns to the cab I’m riding in with Brando. I put the sheet of paper on my lap and hold my dad’s big watch over it. When I press the light button, the watch face casts a bright glow onto the brief. It’s our mission communication codes. My partner nods appreciatively. I make an I told you so face at him, then memorize the comm codes we’ll use once we’ve been inserted into England.

  CORE PUB-GG-2399

  BusinessWeek, September 12, 1978

  Greater Germany’s fiscal dominance

  fueled by their “peculiar institution”

  Joseph Florein of Goldman Sachs built his career as an investment banker with carefully thought-out strategies and a down-to-earth communication style. His direct and honest personality has led to his second occupation as a financial news commentator for 60 Minutes. He’s a voice of calm reason in good times and in bad, but there is one thing that makes the normally imperturbable financier raise his voice.

  “Year after year, financial analysts prattle on about the strength of Greater Germany’s economy,” Mr. Florein said last week. “Yes. Their economy is strong because it’s based on slavery!’”

  Mr. Florein spoke at a fund-raiser for Free for All, a charitable organization he founded to abolish slavery in Greater Germany. Mr. Florein feels that Free for All should appeal to every American citizen, whether they are Jewish or not. “Our country suffered through slavery’s shame,” he said. “When we abolished it in 1863, we were the last industrialized nation to do so. How can any American sleep at night knowing that across the Atlantic, our ally holds millions of her citizens in bondage?”

  07

  Nine days later, Sunday, February 1, 1981, 5:15 P.M. GMT

  Between Haxby and Strensall, Yorkshire, Province of Great Britain, GG

  The English night has tumbled in on us like a moldy ceiling. I light up Dad’s watch. It’s barely after five o’clock.

  “I can’t believe it’s so dark already,” I comm.

  “Yeah, I know,” Brando comms back. “We’re a lot further north than places we’ve been before.”

  Zurich—

  DISMEMBERED

  —I’m covered in blood.

  BURNED

  I shut my partner’s eyes and—

  GLISTENING

  —scream my heart out.

  I inhale deeply through my nose, then exhale slowly through my mouth. Doctor Herodotus has me do this when I have these death flashes, or “intrusive thoughts.” Dr. H said they would go away after a while, but it’s been five months and I swear they’re getting worse.

  Brando knows he hasn’t actually been in those places with me, but his hypnotically implanted memories are so vivid he can’t help saying “we” instead of “you and m
y dead brother.” When this happens, my mind flashes through a gruesome picture gallery of Trick’s mangled corpse.

  I look at Brando and continue my slow breathing. It helps me to see him all in one piece and not a smoking, mutilated mess. Naturally I think he’s attractive—he’s Trick’s twin—but I can’t fall for Patrick again. It’s weird enough already. He is handsome, though, especially with longer hair.

  Trick always got supershort haircuts, but it turns out the Patricks are blessed with great hair that gets wavy when it’s longer. Brando has let his hair grow out for this mission so he’ll look more like a civilian and less like a government agent. It’s gotten so long he has to push his bangs out of his face as we stare across a dusky field at a German passenger train chugging toward the little English town of Haxby.

  My partner follows the train with a pair of high-powered starlight binoculars. “The five-sixteen commuter train, right on time,” he comms. Brando hands his binoculars to the Circle of Zion’s local leader, a no-bullshit fifty-something woman named Miriam.

  “Let’s hope die Teutsch are always so predictable,” she says in the German-British accent so many people have here, although Miriam also sprinkles in some Yiddish now and then.

  Die Teutsch simply means “the Germans,” but Circle members always say it with enough blazing hatred to set fire to a bucket of water. Brando and I have spent a week with these people—most of whom are runaway Jewish slaves—to establish contacts and open routes for smuggling in food, supplies, and of course guns ‘n ammo. I’ve gotten a munga-intense crash course in Jewish history, or as I call it, My Intergalactic Space God Fell Asleep at the Wheel and All We Got Was This Shitty Existence. If there’s anybody who’d be up for exploring new planets and getting off this round hell, it’s Jewish people.

  For now we’re here to see what we can do about making Earth a little less crappy for the Space God’s Chosen Ones. The United States has agents all over Britain, waiting to begin the festivities. Party time will begin in London when the Germans’ central communications facility inexplicably explodes. This will be closely followed by a series of electric power grid disasters. That’s when smaller groups like us will go to work.