by Brian Fuller
Corinth whistled. “Is it all gone?”
Ramis nodded. “It’s gone. We detonated what was left to hide it. Primus should have detonated too, but here we are. Analysis of the attack can wait. We need Primus. And we’ve got a plan.”
“What plan?” Cassandra asked.
Archus Magdelene leaned forward, face filling the screen. “If the Dreads crack the encryption, we’re dead in the water. The recent compromised missions indicate that the Dreads may already be in the system. We need to send in the one person not in the system to reconnoiter the place. We need Trace.”
“No, no, no,” Cassandra said. “Just because Jarhead’s not in the system doesn’t mean we can throw him under the bus. Going in that place is suicide, and it gets us nothing. The boy can hardly zip up his proverbial Ash Angel pants, for heaven’s sake! They’ll pick him out in a microsecond.”
Trace furrowed his brow. That wasn’t fair. He’d been in some pretty tough spots already and come out okay.
“Listen to reason, Cassie,” Ramis argued. “Whoever perpetrated this attack had inside help! They knew where the computer core was. They had the keys and codes to access it. They were able to subvert the self-destruct mechanism. If they had the help and the skill to do all those things, there’s a chance—while not likely—that they’ve already plowed through the encryption and have a list of every Gabriel within two hundred miles of this place, including photos and identity sets. More likely is that whoever is helping them already provided them with that information. Trace is the only one they couldn’t know from a computer dump. He’s the best shot we have.”
“But that’s not the point,” Cassandra argued. “There’s no reason to go in there. We watch the exits and pounce on anyone coming out. That drive is the size of a briefcase. You can’t just wander off with it tucked in your pants!”
“Look, Cassie,” Archus Magdelene broke in, “The tech department said that if the Dreads crack the outer shell, the drive could easily be smuggled out inside a backpack. Something smaller if they just take the chips. Getting someone in there to watch is our best chance to find out what’s going on and where it is. We need eyes in there.”
“Then send me!” she retorted. “I can morph into some mangled slob of a woman they’ve never seen in the ident photos.”
“No, Cassandra,” Ramis interrupted. “The Dreads and Possessed in this town have seen you more than any other Gabriel.”
“Then don’t send anyone!” Cassandra yelled. “It’s pointless to send some rookie who turns into a puddle when he’s torched, not to mention how slowly—”
Trace grabbed Cassandra’s arm, and she quieted, turning toward him with a bitter expression.
“I’ll do it.”
Cassandra pulled her arm from his grasp and threw her hands up in disgust. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to this.” She stormed away and ascended the steep stairway to the hatch leading to Father Amos’s office, closing it with a loud bang. Wistfully, Archus Magdelene smiled at Trace. Ramis sat and ran his hand through his hair, appearing exhausted.
“I’ll go talk to her,” Goldbow offered, preparing to rise.
The hatch cracked open before he could stand. “And don’t send Goldbow up here to talk to me, either!” Cassandra spat. “And don’t forget that Trace is a protocol flouter who doesn’t obey orders!” The hatch closed again.
“Look, Trace,” Archus Magdelene said, face grave. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you. This is the most dangerous thing I’ve ever asked an Ash Angel to do in my entire time as Archus of the Gabriels. They are Desecrating the main floor, which means you will feel pain and your Bestowal of Strength won’t work. They’ll be on the lookout for Blanks, which means you’ll be under intense scrutiny, especially when you first enter. And if you do anything that might indicate you are looking for something, or if you use your phone too much, you’ll be spotted for sure. We’re getting a phone and some basic documentation prepped for you, but with Trevex gone, it might not get here in time.
“Your goal is to hang back and watch. Look for anyone who might be carrying something in a large case and see if the Dreads are concentrated around any particular spot. If you feel threatened, get out.”
Archus Mars piped in. “Don’t worry Trace. By the time you’re ready to go in, I’ll have Michaels ready to pour in at the slightest hint of trouble. Hell, if you survive, they might even let you graduate, eh, Ramis?”
“Enough of that,” Magdelene interrupted before Ramis could let fly a response. “Trace, we’ll give you a number to text us anything important. We’ll use coded messages of course, but use the phone sparingly. Now, Corinth, I need you to get Trace prepped. Give him tips—”
The hatch cracked open. “I’ll do the prepping, thank you very much,” Cassandra said acidly as she came down the stairs. “I’m his trainer. Now, all of you get out. Corinth, I need you to get some dirt and beer and bring it back here. Some cheap cologne, too.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Corinth saluted.
The teleconference ended, and everyone cleared out. After berating him for nearly five minutes for taking the mission, Cassandra got down to business, explaining all the intricacies of manner, posture, and attitude she would use had she been chosen to go. It all came out in a disorganized, anxious tumble that provided no good thread to hold on to, but Trace let her ramble. The more advice she gave, the calmer she became.
Corinth returned just as she was running out of things to say, and he handed Trace the bottle of cologne and set the six pack on a table. In a brown lunch sack, a handful of fresh dirt waited.
“You know how many weird looks I got carrying a pack of beer in here, not to mention digging around in the planters? Hopefully Father Amos will be able to explain his attempts at reforming the strange dirt-digging drunk.”
“Chumpkins, I needed one beer, not an entire pack.”
“I graduated, Cassie. You call me Corinth, now, remember?”
“Except when you do something stupid,” she said. “Now let’s get to work. He’s got to look a bit unkempt, someone no one wants to talk to but still nice enough to actually be in public.”
“I’m on it.”
“Okay, Jarhead, what kind of a drunk are you?” Cassandra asked as Corinth distressed and odorized his clothing by strategically sprinkling beer on him.
“What kind of drunk?” he asked.
“Yeah, you know. Do you get angry, sullen, dress up in women’s clothing, and dance on the table?”
“I’m just quiet, I guess.”
“Sullen, then. That’ll work. Just remember to not make eye contact and to complain a lot. When you go in there, you act like you want to forget everyone and everything. Now look at me and focus. You’ve got to morph, and you don’t have all day to do it. I need some scruff on those cheeks, and I need it now. Close your eyes.”
He obeyed, and she reached out and placed the palms of her hands against his cheeks, startling him. “Now, look, Jarhead, I’m not trying to get friendly here. I want you to get my hands off your face, but I want you to think of your facial hair pushing them away, like a thousand tiny columns pushing upward. Got it?”
“That’s weird.”
“Yeah, but it works. Do it,” she ordered.
Trace formed the mental image in his head, envisioning Cassandra’s hands as a smothering blanket he had to throw off. He considered facial hair one of his best areas but surprised himself by actually forming a nice layer of stubble in scant seconds, the hairs sprouting outward as if to escape the confines of her palms.
“Good, Jarhead! Now for the eyes. We need bleary and exhausted.” She put her face almost nose to nose with Trace’s. “Look at my eyes.” Her bright-blue eyes transformed almost instantaneously, dimming, yellowing, and streaking with red veins. The skin around them loosened and darkened. “I’m your mirror, Trace. Make my eyes your eyes. Back off for a minute, Chumpkins. He’s got to concentrate.”
At first, Trace had a hard time igno
ring the intimate distance between them, but she never blinked or wavered. He sobered himself by remembering the scads of Dreads surrounding the bar and went to work.
“A little more yellow,” she coaxed. “Okay, good. Now for a little emaciation and discoloration. Generally we move fat around. Now we need to get rid of it and get skeletal. Did you wrestle with your brother?”
“Sure.”
She moved around behind him and encircled his midsection in a herculean vise. She was strong. “Now, remember, Jarhead, when your brother caught you, you’d suck in and pry at his arms to free yourself. Think of it the same way, except you’re trying to thin your body so you can escape the ring. I’m going to squeeze really hard, but I won’t keep tightening. Just thin yourself until the pressure is gone.”
Again, the tactile feedback solidified what he had to do in his mind, and the transformation came with relative ease compared to the mighty struggles that usually blocked his morphing. When he declared he was done, she lifted up his shirt to ensure his ribs stuck out the proper amount.
“Not bad,” she complimented him. “Now stick out your arm.” He complied, and she put her own next to it, her skin soft against his. “The look and the texture is important, Jarhead. We’re shooting for a guy in his mid-forties. Watch my arm and change it to exactly what you see and feel.”
Her skin became desiccated and roughened, tiny freckles and imperfections peppering the surface. While it took him minutes to accomplish what she pulled off in seconds, the process clicked for him in a way it never had. She coached him through the other arm and his face in similar fashion, and then Corinth resumed his ministrations with Cassandra’s help, weathering and discoloring his teeth and nails to make sure nothing seemed Ash Angel fresh. When Cassandra produced a small mirror from her purse for him to admire their work, a stranger looked back at him.
It took another two hours for his wallet to arrive. It took another to change the picture so the Nathan Pederson on the driver’s license looked like the man Cassandra had helped Trace morph into. When his new phone arrived, so did the dead weight in his stomach, along with the stark realization that he was about to walk into a building full of people that would tear him apart in the most miserable ways if they found out who he was. Cassandra must have noticed his suddenly sober countenance, and she slapped him on the butt like a coach about to send her worst player into the championship game.
“You can do it, Trace. Remember what I told you,” she said, eyes pleading. “I’ll be right here waiting for news. And please, forget your good upbringing. Do not be mister nice guy, and don’t get any delusions about saving the world, or proving how clever you are, or playing some stupid prank. Just do the job and get out. Got it?”
“I think I—”
“And breathe. Don’t forget to breathe. Not breathing is a dead giveaway.”
“Got it.”
After a handshake from Corinth and a wave to a nail-biting Cassandra, he ascended the stairs. Father Amos escorted him back to the door.
“God be with you,” was the last encouragement he heard before stepping out of the hallowed confines of the Church and out a back way into the street to catch the next bus to enemy territory.
Chapter 22
Immersion
Trace burped loudly enough for the back half of the bus to hear. It had taken two blocks for him to work up his drunk persona, and by the disgusted glares he was getting, he was putting on a good performance. The reek of alcohol seemed to be working, the other passengers observing the two-seats-away rule when boarding. He forced himself not to stare out the window. Dreads multiplied in his peripheral vision, his anxiety rising with the numbers.
Breathe.
It was six thirty and nearly dark when the bus jerked to a halt at his stop. A single Dread sat on the bench at the stop, casually watching everyone stepping off the bus. Acting disoriented, Trace carefully descended the steps and turned toward the Hammer Bar and Grill. Operations believed the busy dinner hour the best time to insert an operative as the additional patrons would act as cover, but once he walked the remaining two blocks to the bar, his heart sank. Besides a platoon of Dreads, the place appeared rather dead for the dinner rush. The normal patrons barely outnumbered the Dreads and Possessed.
Breathe.
He tried to keep Cassandra’s three S’s of the sullen drunk in mind: slow, slur, and slouch. First he had to pass the conspicuous Dreads loitering around the front scrutinizing everyone going by.
Be casual. Don’t clench up.
Cassandra had reiterated over and over that Dreads were essentially normal people, but after they had torched him twice and shot him, he felt like the chess captain walking through the football players’ locker room. But he couldn’t stop. He kept walking, he kept breathing, and he kept to himself right up until he set foot on the desecrated ground in front of the door.
After months of the protecting numbness of Ash Angelhood, the sudden return of nerves alive and aware of every scrape and bump sent him into a stumble. The crossbar on the door saved him from a hard trip to the concrete, though his forward inertia sent the door open wider than he intended, slamming into a bald brute of a Dread off to the right inside the vestibule. Trace’s clumsiness earned him a hard shove into the opposite wall. And it hurt. He grimaced, realizing for the first time since awakening what an advantage it was not to feel pain.
Breathe.
“What’s your problem, fool?” the Dread spat. Trace spied a gun holster underneath his jacket.
Wincing from the impact, he peeled himself off the wall and turned his drunken eyes upward, careful not to make eye contact. “Easy, man! Jus’ lookin’ for a drink. You oughta fix that broken concrete. You’re gonna get sued.”
Trace shuffled off, mumbling under his breath. He pressed through the door on the opposite side of the vestibule, not chancing a look back at the angry Dread.
The Hammer Bar and Grill was more upscale on the inside than Cassandra and Corinth had groomed his clothes for. It occupied the bottom floor of a larger building, the outside tiled in slabs of red granite. The odor of cleaning chemicals from a recently bussed table mixed with the intoxicating smell of meat and spirits. The drone of conversation gave the place a familiar feel despite the smattering of red auras and evil spirits everywhere. Off-white walls trimmed with maroon enclosed the main seating areas to Trace’s left and right, large windows looking out onto the street. Straight ahead, the bar had a darker, metallic theme, the tabletops and bar both made from shiny black quartz trimmed with aluminum. The bar sat in a pool of fluorescent light, forming a U shape in the middle of the room. Patrons huddled both there and at tall circular tables grouped in the dim shadows outside of the bar’s light.
A Dread waitress waited at reception, scrubbing an entry from the plastic sheeting over a diagram of the interior of the restaurant. She regarded him briefly.
“One moment, please.”
After arranging a few menus, she turned toward him with a customer-service smile. She was a beautiful Middle-Eastern woman with almond-shaped brown eyes and olive skin, but her red glow set him on edge.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”
While he couldn’t recognize her accent, it colored her with intelligence.
“First time.”
“Well, I’ll try to be gentle,” she said, tone teasing but eyes serious. “You can wait to be seated or go grab a place at the bar.”
He blinked his bleary eyes and pointed toward the bar, faking a stifled burp.
“Of course,” she said, mouth turned down in disgust. “I’ll leave you to it.”
The bar’s clientele favored business casual, and Trace found his grungy outfit fit in better with the Dreads lounging about in the main seating area, most looking like they had just clocked out of construction jobs. TVs hung from the bar’s walls, flashing a variety of NBA games, reminding him of another activity he and Terissa enjoyed together.
Breathe.
He pass
ed two Possessed at the high tables on his way to the bar, both men sweet-talking the women sitting across from them. Trace shuddered. As disturbing as the Dreads were, he doubted he would ever get used to the evil, leech-like forms hanging out the backs of their victims or the malevolent red eyes that replaced the natural gaze of their hosts.
Trace clambered onto a barstool next to a geeky man in a green sweater vest and bow tie. He was alone, but as soon as Trace sat down, he grimaced in disgust and moved to an unoccupied seat farther away. Maybe Corinth had gone a little too far on the stinking-up bit. Only three barstools remained, the rest occupied by a young crowd of mostly college-age men and women mixed with Dreads.
“What’ll you have?” asked the bartender, a weathered-looking Dread with coal-black hair and dusky-blue eyes. Trace wondered if it bothered them that they couldn’t morph, forever stuck the way they were when they died.
“Whatever’s closest,” Trace mumbled.
The bartender filled a cup with a pale beer and pushed it in front of him. Trace settled in, monopolizing a bowl of unshelled peanuts and tossing down the drink faster than he intended. His phone buzzed to notify him of an incoming text. Operations was fishing for an initial report. He texted back a predetermined code, “beer and pretzels,” which, while not entirely accurate, let them know he was safely in.
When the next drink came, he took it slowly, gazing casually around the room, searching for clues as to the hard drive’s location. He really doubted the Dreads would leave Primus lying around in the restaurant or bar. The protective cadre of Dreads all over the establishment indicated it was somewhere nearby, probably on an upper floor, though he couldn’t see any obvious elevator or stairs that would permit access. He was beginning to agree with Cassandra. What could he possibly do besides get himself killed?
“You need anything?” It was the Dread waitress he’d talked to at the reception. Her curious look worried him. He scanned her name tag: Dahlia. She was thin, tall, and busty. Something about her dark complexion and confident bearing gave her a regal air, more like a queen or a CEO than a waitress. The burning red aura around her had blinded him to her good looks when he first saw her.
