Angel Fire

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 94

 

  He jerked upright as an explosion rumbled, the force of it trembling the ground under his feet.

  “What the hell—” Sam’s eyes were wide; his voice drowned out by the thunder of several more explosions.

  Oh Jesus, there had been an attack, and Willow was in there—Alex bolted for the entrance while the explosions were still going, hurled himself down the steps. He met a stampede head-on – thousands of shrieking, panicked people, all fighting to get out. The metal detector was trampled to the floor with a crash; people were pushing at him, shouting, forcing him back up the stairs in the swell of humanity.

  “Let me through!” he yelled in Spanish. He propelled himself into the hysterical crowd. “Let me through!” Three crying girls shoved forward, shouting in French. Alex lunged past; found himself grappling a man with a frantic face. Howling obscenities, the man threw a punch that connected hard with his chin; Alex punched back without thinking and was past him in a second, battling his way against the tide. Willow was in there, Willow—

  Others were fighting to get in too – there were shouts of “Kill the angels! Kill the angels!” as some of the Crusaders barrelled through in a group. A dark-haired woman clutching a baby stood crying in fear, battered from both directions; he saw her start to go down. Despite his own frenzy to get inside, Alex couldn’t ignore her – she and her child were seconds from being trampled.

  Gritting his teeth, he got over to the woman and put his arms around her, then fought his way across to the wall with her, shielding her. He could feel the woman shaking as he was pounded from side to side, rocked by the crowd. “It’s okay, you’ll be okay,” he kept repeating in Spanish, and all he could think was, Willow, please god, let her be alive.

  Finally the crowd thinned; an opening appeared on the stairs behind him. “You’ll be all right now, Señora,” he said quickly, stepping back. She threw herself at him, kissing his cheek.

  “Gracias, Señor, gracias—” She turned and ran, holding her child tightly; she hadn’t even made it to the first step before Alex was racing into the smoking cathedral. Several of the pews were crackling with flames; bodies lay scattered like abandoned toys, surrounded by hymn books and debris. The rioters were everywhere – pulling statues over, smashing paintings into splinters, shooting at the stone columns that marched down the centre aisle. With a cheer, a gang threw a pew through a stained-glass window; it crumpled into brightly-coloured fragments.

  Alex drew his gun and made his way, coughing, to the front, checking out every body that he passed – terrified that one would be Willow, her green eyes empty and unseeing. Oh god, Willow, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything I said – please, just be alive, we’ll work it out, I promise—

  In front of the altar, near the charred and crumpled balustrade, he found Willow’s phone lying on the floor, its screen cracked. He gripped it hard as he looked wildly around him. Had she dropped the phone while escaping? Or had she been so close to this bomb that there was barely anything left of her? He shoved the thought away. The office; maybe they’d searched the office – he ran towards it, weaving past the sprawled, lifeless bodies.

  The office door had been shot open by rioters. Suddenly he was in a smoke-filled tunnel. He plunged forward, eyes streaming as he held his arm over his face.

  “Willow!” he called in a strangled voice. “Willow, are you in here?” A bonfire crackled halfway down the corridor: oil paintings warping and twisting. He took a running jump and got past it somehow; half-fell as he landed and kept going. When he reached the office door more smoke was pouring out – the reception area and inner offices were all in flames, furniture lying on its side, files scattered.

  “Willow!” he got out again. He searched the smoky den the best he could, crouching low and feeling his way around the floor. The heat was a solid wall; the smoke was in his throat, up his nose – fogging his brain, making it hard to think. A splintering crash came as the desk collapsed. Sparks flew, sizzling at his exposed hands and cheeks.

  “Alex!” Kara had appeared, holding someone’s jacket over her face as she tugged at his arm; her eyes looked like red, burning coals. Her shouts were muffled. “We’ve got to get out of here—”

  “No!” he choked out. “Willow—”

  “She’s not here! Do you want to die, you idiot?”

  He resisted, but the smoke had made him weak. Kara half dragged him from the office. In the corridor, smoke lay heavy in both directions; taking the slightly better way, they found the paintings on the stone floor had almost burned out. They got past the sputtering flames and burst back into the relative clarity of the cathedral. Police had arrived, struggling with the rioters – Alex saw someone go down as an officer clubbed him over the head.

  “They won’t like us any better,” gasped Kara. “We’ve got to get to that side exit Seb told us about. ”

  Alex was bent over coughing. He shook his head, wiping his streaming eyes. “No, I’ve got to keep looking – she could be in here—”

  Kara gripped his arms, her nails gouging at him. “Listen to me!” she hissed. “There is an angel war going on outside, and your team’s on their own! If she and Seb are alive, they’ll take care of each other. If they’re not, it’s too late anyway, so come on!”

  Even through his shirt, Kara was clutching him hard enough for her nails to break the skin. The pain cleared his head. She was right. He hated it, but she was right. With a last look at the bodies that lay scattered around them, Alex nodded. It felt like he was tearing his heart out and leaving it behind.

  “Come on,” he said shortly.

  As they escaped out the side door, he thought to do a scan, cursing himself for not doing it sooner. He lifted above his chakra points while they pounded back towards the Zócalo, searching feverishly. Around them shouting gangs were smashing windows; looting from stores; rocking cars over. He couldn’t feel Willow’s distinctive half-angel energy anywhere. So either she’d gotten away and was somewhere on these riot-choked streets, or she was dead. Alex gritted his teeth. No, he refused to believe the latter. He refused.

  Take care of her, Seb, he thought as they reached the Zócalo again. Oh man, I beg you – take care of her.

  There was no time for further thought. The riot raged through the square as Crusaders and Faithful battled it out; the police were there but not enough of them. Overhead, dozens of angels swooped like fiercely beautiful birds. In a bizarre way, the scene was reminiscent of the Love the Angels concert he and Willow had watched their first night here.

  “Where’s the team?” Alex couldn’t see them anywhere.

  Kara stood staring, her beautiful face smudged with smoke; she held a pistol half-hidden under her bag. “I don’t know! When I went in after you they were still near the cathedral, but—”

  She broke off as a flying angel exploded into nothing near the Palacio Nacional.

  “There!” said Alex. With his own gun drawn, they took off at a run, skirting the edges of the crowd. A ripple had passed through the angels at the death – they were now gliding in the same direction as he and Kara. Dozens of them, and he was still too far away to help the team.