Fortunato frowned. It didn’t exactly sound appealing. Besides, there was as little for him in America as there was in Japan. His mother was dead. His girls were all gone. There was nothing but Peregrine, married to another man these fifteen years or more. And his son...
He looked at Dogen, who smiled his gentle smile.
“Perhaps Mr. Downs is right. You can’t deny that lately you’ve been restless. Perhaps it is time that you walk in the world again, to get a fresh perspective on what you’ve given up and what you have now.”
Fortunato smiled wryly. There was no way to hide anything from Dogen. The old man knew Fortunato’s mind perhaps better than the ace did himself.
“Perhaps you’re right.” Fortunato said.
“Right? Of course he’s right,” Downs said, looking from one to the other and smiling broadly. “Cripes, what a story! I can see it on the cover of Aces!: “Fortunato’s Return to America.”
“Do you think anyone will care?” Fortunato asked thoughtfully.
“They will when I get done with it,” Downs promised.
Fortunato, though, wasn’t so sure.
J ohn Nighthawk waited patiently at the baggage carousel for his luggage to arrive. If there was one thing he’d learned over the years, it was patience. Usher stood to his right, a silent monolith. Magda, dressed in a traditional black and white nun’s habit, a uniform which she habitually wore when they weren’t on a mission, stood to his left as baggage was disgorged onto the meandering belt. They all watched for the black satchel with the faded Vatican coat of arms decal on its side.
“I miss Grubbs already,” Usher complained as the bag they’d been waiting for finally appeared. He reached down and picked it up as it glided by. Toting and carrying had always been Grubbs’ job.
Nighthawk said nothing. Their stop at customs was expedited by their Vatican diplomatic passports. If the customs agent was dubious about the old black man, the bruiser who looked like a heavyweight champion, and the hard-eyed nun traveling under the auspices of the Holy See, it didn’t show on his bored expression. They carried no other luggage besides the diplomatic pouch, which of course went unexamined as they breezed through arrival formalities and exited Tomlin International.
A limo with Vatican diplomatic plates and two occupants was waiting for them at ground transport. The silent driver had the proper degree of unassuming servitude. The man with him was the handsome blonde man Nighthawk knew only as the Witness. He was one of two Witnesses who worked for the Cardinal. They were brothers. Nighthawk differentiated them in his mind as the Asshole and the Bigger Asshole. This one was the Bigger Asshole.
“Any problems?” the Bigger Asshole asked.
“We lost Grubbs,” Nighthawk said.
The Witness shrugged. “I’m sure he’s gone on to his proper reward. But, you got the Mandylion all right? No problems with that?”
Nighthawk shook his head. “No. No problems with that.” He gestured at the bag emblazoned with the Vatican crest.
“Put it in the trunk,” the Witness said.
Usher did, after the driver popped it open from where he sat behind the wheel. Usher slammed the lid and came around to the limo’s back door, but the Bigger Asshole shook his head.
“The help takes taxis,” he said.
Usher looked at Nighthawk, who nodded briefly. The big man sauntered over to the line of taxis at the nearby cab stand, followed by a stoic Magda. The Witness looked at Nighthawk, who looked back. The Bigger Asshole pursed his lips, but said nothing as Nighthawk opened the limo’s door and slid into the seat. The Witness got in, sat next to Nighthawk, and the limo pulled away from the curb.
“Is everyone else in town?” Nighthawk asked, more to pester the Bigger Asshole than because he was really interested.
“Everyone was,” the Witness said briefly. “Dagon and my brother left yesterday on a mission.”
“Where to?”
“Gomorrah,” the Witness smiled, “to fetch the Anti-Christ to cower in chains before the throne of Our Lord.” His smile turned to a frown. “Although there’s talk that others will join them soon via Blood’s tunnel. It seems that the Anti-Christ has his own cadre of aces.”
Nighthawk was startled. Despite the fact that he and his team had been sent to fetch the Mandylion, he hadn’t really believed that after all these years the Cardinal’s plan had finally been set into motion.
“It’s starting then,” Nighthawk said.
“Oh yes,” the Bigger Asshole said with a broad and glittery smile that looked more malevolent than cheerful. “And nothing or no one can stop us now.”
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠ Las Vegas, Nevada: The Mirage
Ray stepped out of the heat of the early June afternoon into the sweet coolness of the Mirage’s air conditioned lobby and stopped for a moment to watch the tourists mill around while he considered his next move. All of a sudden he wasn’t so sure that this trip was such a good idea.
Sure, he had traded the utter boredom of the Peaceable Kingdom for the relative excitement of Las Vegas, but now that he was here, his pulses weren’t exactly pounding. Not yet, anyway. It all seemed... well... tawdry wasn’t a word he often used, but somehow it seemed appropriate. All around him middle-aged, middle class, Mid western tourists were avidly chasing excitement. Had he really joined their ranks?
What’s wrong with me? Ray thought. Am I actually developing some sense of values?
He’d started to notice some unsettling things lately. He’d been getting more tired than he’d ever been before. Pain lingered. It took longer to come back from injuries. Something that would have taken only a couple of hours to heal twenty years ago now took a day, sometimes longer. Everything seemed to hurt worse.
Not that I’m old, he told himself, but I do have a lot of mileage. Maybe the odometer is getting ready to turn over. Maybe it’s even running out. Nothing ever said that I could go on forever, my powers undiminished...
Ray’s uncharacteristic mood of introspection suddenly screeched to a halt as he noticed the woman approaching him from across the Mirage’s lobby. For the first time in a long time, he felt his pulse start to race. At least a little.
He wasn’t sure if she was beautiful, exactly. Her expression was far too gloomy, for one thing. Her features were bold rather than delicate, with a generous mouth, aquiline nose, and large eyes that looked haunted. By guilt, by melancholy, Ray couldn’t tell. Her skin was milk white, almost luminous in its pale perfection, contrasting vividly with her night black hair, which was thick and wavy and though bound in a heavy braid hanging down to the middle of her back seemed to be struggling to escape its bonds. Ray was not overly imaginative, but he could picture it blowing about her face in a gentle wind, or spilling in luxuriant waves over her pale-skinned shoulders.
She was wearing a black leather jumpsuit and black boots that came to her knees. She was built. Really built, with wide hips and large breasts confined as uneasily as her hair and long legs. Her leather jumpsuit clung tightly to her curves, as snug as a second skin.
She held an ice cream cone in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other, as well as the strap of a large duffel bag which she carried easily, without a sign of strain. She moved rapidly through the knots of tourists standing around the lobby. From time to time she looked up from the paper she was studying, but she was paying more attention to the ice cream cone than she was to her surroundings. She licked it rapidly, almost rapturously. She walked quickly.
She glanced up and their eyes suddenly met.
But it was too late.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠ Las Vegas, Nevada: The Mirage
The Midnight Angel was tired. She hadn’t slept in over forty-eight hours, and hadn’t eaten a proper meal—you couldn’t count the tasteless mess they served on the plane—in much longer. The flight from New York to Las Vegas had seemingly taken forever. The plane had been packed with Vegas junketeers eager to begin their carousing. Alcohol flowed freely and annoyingly uncontrolled laughter was all too common.
She hadn’t been able to sleep at all.
There was no rest, the Angel thought, for the wicked.
She’s phoned The Hand right after her encounter with the Allumbrados in the Waldorf-Astoria’s parking garage. The Hand, though not exactly pleased with her news about Contarini and his aces, had been pleased with the way she’d handled herself.
“I knew you’d come through, Angel,” he’d told her. She’d smiled at his praise, puffed up with a pride that was almost sinful.
There was a thoughtful silence as The Hand pondered the information she’d relayed. The Angel could visualize his handsome face, his strong, dimpled chin, his wide brow crinkled with frown lines as he considered what to do.
“All right,” he finally said decisively. “I want you to go pick up the boy. We have to move fast. It’s important—vital—that you bring him to safety, so I’m sending you some help, an experienced agent named Billy Ray. He’s a top-flight man. Toughest bast—er, fellow I’ve ever run across, but I wouldn’t entirely trust him with all our plans.” He paused briefly and his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Not sound, theologically speaking. But we use what tools we must. You’ll meet him in Las Vegas—”
“Vegas?” The Angel was so horrified with the thought of traveling to the American Gomorrah that she interrupted The Hand.
“That’s where the boy is. Actually, it’s a good thing he’s not in New York as the place seems to be crawling with Allumbrados right now. Take the first flight you can get. When you arrive at the Vegas airport check the Pan American customer service counter. I’ll fax you Ray’s photo so you can recognize him. Meet him in the Mirage lobby. That’s where the boy’s staying with his mother and bodyguard.”
“But—”
“No time for buts, honey. I know you can do this. We have to gather the boy to the safety of our bosom in the Peaceable Kingdom. I’ll see you soon.” He rang off before the Angel could further protest her exile to Las Vegas, but his final words of praise warmed her all through her flight across the continent.
The promised photo was in fact waiting for her when she’d arrived at the Vegas airport, along with the additional information that in a bit of fortuitous timing, Ray’s flight had arrived only a few minutes before her own. He was probably on his way to the Mirage, if he hadn’t reached it already.
Upon reflection, though, the Angel realized that maybe the timing wasn’t so fortuitous. She’d hoped to check into the hotel and maybe catch a few hours sleep. She definitely had to find something to eat. Her body burned calories at a prodigious rate. It seemed that she was always hungry. She ate and ate but never felt really satisfied. She worried about the sin of gluttony, but could she be considered a glutton if she never gained an ounce of weight?
It wasn’t really gluttony, the Angel thought, if you needed every mouthful you swallowed.
On her way to the pick-up spot for the hotel’s courtesy van, she stopped at an airport snack bar, looked over the menu board, and winced at the prices. They were outrageous. She had enough cash for a large soda and a couple of chocolate bars. Cadbury, the big ones with nuts and raisins. They were really quite nutritious.
She tried to eat slowly, but her hunger drove her to gulp down the chocolate bars quickly. Even so, a large soda without ice and three Cadbury bars failed to sate her appetite, but there was nothing to do about it but hustle off to the Mirage. Time was flying. She had to meet this Billy Ray. They had to make plans. She hoped he’d brought some money with him. Despite her careful shepherding of the funds The Hand had given at the start of her mission, she was almost stone broke.
Buzzing along on caffeine and sugar and lack of sleep, the Angel strode through the airport concourse, aware of every staring male eye, of every impure thought that must be hiding behind their bland but oh-so obvious expressions. She retrieved her one piece of luggage, a battered old duffel bag, from the revolving carousel, and went out into the blazing Vegas afternoon where she waited impatiently for the shuttle to come along on its appointed rounds and take her and about twenty other sweating tourists to the Mirage.
Hunger still gnawed at her. To take her mind off her grumbling stomach, she studied the photo that The Hand had faxed to her. This Billy Ray didn’t look like anything special. He wasn’t very big. Didn’t appear to be particularly muscular. Didn’t even look too bright, actually. Still, there had to be something special about him if he worked for The Hand. The Hand clearly had confidence in his ability, if not his ultimate loyalty.
The thought that he had so much confidence in her warmed her heart. The Hand was a handsome man. Even more importantly, he was a man of and for God. She had given him her complete trust when she’d joined his group. The Angel knew that her mother wouldn’t have approved of her straying out into the world, but her mother was no longer with her and she had to do something with her life. At least her mother would have approved of the Angel’s decision to utilize her abilities in the service of the Lord. The Angel was sure of that.
When the shuttle finally arrived at the Mirage, the Angel trooped off the bus with the rest of the tourists. She endured a suggestive glance from the driver as he handed over her duffel bag and sighed in unselfconscious pleasure as she entered the cool lobby. She glanced around. It was bigger and much more crowded than she’d ever imagined it would be. It might not be as easy to spot Billy Ray as she’d thought.
She did, however, immediately spot an ice cream stand near the lobby’s far wall. Her stomach rumbled out loud. She had about three dollars left from the money The Hand had given her. She realized then of course that even if she’d wanted to get a room and rest before meeting Billy Ray, she couldn’t possibly afford it. She did have enough for an ice cream cone, though. Maybe a double scoop.
The ice cream boy, tall and thin and wearing a chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla spotted white suit, eyed her insouciantly as she approached.
“What can I get for you?” he asked with a leer.
“Chocolate cone,” the Angel replied frostily.
“Two scoops or one?” Somehow he made his query sound like an indecent proposal.
She pulled all her money out from the right front pocket of her tight leather jumpsuit, and frowned at two sweaty singles.
“One,” she said with disappointment.
“Here,” the ice cream boy said grandly, adding an extra scoop to the cone. “Just for you, babe.”
The Angel hesitated, but greed overcame her and she accepted the pilfered scoop of ice cream. Tonight she would pray long and hard over this, she thought.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Anytime, babe,” the ice cream boy called out as she drifted back into the maelstrom of the lobby. “Come see me again sometime,” he added hopefully.
The Angel took a lick of her cone and shivered ecstatically as the cold chocolate melted on her tongue. She took another lick, pausing part-way through as she caught a glimpse of a man who could be the one she was looking for, glanced at the photo to check, realized that he wasn’t her quarry, then turned and saw that she was walking right into a man who was looking at her with an expression that could only be described as predatory.
Their eyes met and she recognized him. It was the man in the photo. The man The Hand had called Billy Ray.
And then they collided.
As the Angel bumped into him words of apology were already on her lips, but his expression suddenly turned horrified and he moved quicker than anyone she had ever seen, smooth and graceful like Fred Astaire gliding around Ginger Rogers on the dance floor in those movies that her mother had always punished her for watching whenever she caught her. He was no longer staring at her, but rather at the ice cream cone which she clutched in her hand inches—just inches—from the jacket of his spotless, expensive-looking suit. The suit was very nice. Impeccable, really. He didn’t look like he’d just gotten off a plane after a long flight. He looked like he’d just come from a glamour shoot. Except, he wasn’t very handsome. There wasn’t anything really
wrong with his features. His crooked nose was a little too long. His mouth a little too thin-lipped. His jaw line somehow unfitting. They just didn’t seem to all add up. It was almost like he’d had facial reconstruction surgery and had chosen randomly from a menu provided by the doctor.
His pale green eyes had transferred their gaze to her ice cream cone and its imminent impact with his faultless suit. The Angel jerked her arm back quickly and gravity did the rest.
The top scoop of chocolate shot forward in a flat trajectory and landed right where his lap would have been if he were sitting down. He looked at the soggy mass of ice cream sliding slowly down the front of his pants, then back up at the Angel.
His eyes were wild
“Oh,” the Angel said. She hunkered down and tried to wipe the mess from the front of his pants. A glob of ice cream ran down his right pant leg, leaving a rather noticeable trail. Then she realized what she was doing. All she could say was “Oh,” again.
The fury disappeared from Ray’s face, to be replaced by an expression of sudden bemusement. “If you keep that up we’ll have to get a room.” He grinned crookedly. “Good thing we’re already in a hotel.”
The Angel stood up before him. She could feel a blush infuse her features, and that made her blush all the harder.
“Not that I don’t appreciate the way you introduce yourself,” Ray said, “but who the Hell are you, anyway?”
The Angel realized she was staring at him from the distance of only a few inches. Their eyes were on the same level. Their bodies were chest to chest, almost touching.
“The Hand sent me to meet you—”
“The Hand?” Ray interrupted.
She reached out and grabbed his arm to forestall, she was sure, another off-color comment. She had always thought it a corny cliché of romance novels, which she knew she shouldn’t read but sometimes couldn’t help herself, but his eyes did burn into hers. For a wild moment she thought he was going to kiss her right there, right in front of all the passers-by who were glancing curiously at the scene being played out before them.
Death Draws Five Page 5
