I didn't have the heart to tell him that the weapon was useless. Carbon steel would not penetrate Samael's skin.
"Just one round?" Monique asked.
"That's all the virus I had enough for. After you shoot it, run." He looked at me. "With that nasty virus in it, it'll make you hate life."
"Make Samael hate life," I corrected.
"Yeah, sure," he replied, sounding disappointed the projectile wasn't meant for me.
"What's in the other case?" Monique asked.
George packed up the first briefcase, opened the second, and in it I recognized the freeze-dried blood that Karen had procured. The packets were in black-velvet pockets on one side of the case, while on the other side small containers of water rested in larger pockets. There had to be about twenty bottles of water in all, which was what made the case so heavy.
"Given that she meant to kill me, is that stuff safe?" I asked.
"I had the lab reconstitute an entire packet and then small samples from the other ones. It checked out as pure Type O negative. Thought you might be able to use it."
"That's very thoughtful of you," Monique said.
"I just don't want to get burned at the stake if he starts going around sucking people's blood while I'm next to him," George said.
"Still, thank you," I said.
"Sure. If you two don't have any questions, I've got a plane to fly." He closed the case.
"One thing," I said. "Is there a secure phone I could use to call, uh…?" I didn't want to say my wife in front of Monique, although I was certain she knew about Sara. "Lori's mother so I can let her know Lori is okay?"
"Every phone in the cabin is scrambled. Take your pick. Anything else?"
"We're good, George. Thank you again for all your work," Monique said.
"I did it for Andre." He turned and went back to the cockpit without further comment, lugging the cases with him, probably considering testing his virus rifle on me.
"You had a rough night. Why don't you get some rest," I said to Monique with a smile.
"While you call your wife?"
Her bluntness stunned me, but I had justification ready. "She ended whatever we had when she started seeing another man."
"I'm not jealous. We both have lived complicated lives." She went back to her seat, reclined, and stared out the window.
I didn't mind if she listened in, thinking it would make her feel better despite her reassurances that she wasn't jealous. I went to the seat opposite of her, sat down, and picked up the handset. First, I dialed the home number, but it rang until the answering machine picked up. I left a brief message and then called Sara's cell phone. That also rang until her prerecorded voice answered. I tried her office, but got the same result. Frustrated, I dialed the home number again followed by the cell again.
"What's wrong?" Monique asked.
"She doesn't answer anywhere. I'm going to try Mitch. That's the guy, well…that's the guy." She nodded in understanding. I dialed Mitch's number, engraved into my memory after years of golfing together.
"Hello?" he answered after a couple rings.
"Mitch, it's Mike. Is Sara around?"
"Mike! Oh, Jesus. I've been trying to track you down."
"Really? If it's about Lori, tell Sara she's safe." He paused for so long that I wondered if he was still there. "Mitch?"
"It's not about Lori."
"What then?"
"When that angel thing appeared on TV," he started.
"Samael? I mean Raphael?"
"Yeah…well, you know he put your picture on television and said you were Satan?"
"I've heard," I said quietly, worried where he was going. My tone caught Monique's attention. She put her seat up and stared intently at me.
"I guess it didn't take them long," he said.
"Take who long, and for what? What's going on, Mitch?"
"The cult nuts, they found out you were married on Facebook. They tracked down where you lived and…and…only a family member can claim the body." He broke down crying. "They tortured her, Mike, thinking she was hiding you!"
I was speechless.
"Where are you?" he yelled. "Where are you so I can tell them, you bastard!"
"I'm so sorry, Mitch." Talking would only infuriate him more, so I hung up the phone in complete shock.
"What is it?" Monique asked.
"She's dead."
"Oh no."
"I should have protected her, but instead I was worried about Karen, who was lying to me the whole time." Anger boiled in me. "Goddamn it!" I slammed my fist down on the arm of the chair, breaking it in half.
"Michael, please, it's not your fault." Monique moved to the chair next to me and placed a hand on my shoulder. "It's Samael's. You cannot be everywhere. The only way to protect everybody is for you to stop him."
"What am I going to tell Lori?" I asked, staring out the small window at the clouds below.
"The truth is always best."
"So much death already…so much." I exhaled a deep breath and turned to her. "If the French won't help us trap Samael, then I am going back to D.C. and taking his power."
"How?"
"Like you said, the truth is always best. I will reveal who I am and who he really is, and then take his power by force if necessary."
"That could be dangerous. Civil war might erupt."
"Monique, the world is already at war. My wife is one of the casualties."
We flew on in contemplative silence, while I feared that my daughter would never forgive me. In that, I was wrong. I also worried that the human civilization I cherished so much would be ripped apart at the core. Unfortunately, I got that one right.
Chapter 31
It took thirty minutes to refuel in São Miguel, and a couple hours after that we disembarked the plane in France, leaving the copilot to watch over it. George secured his makeshift virus rifle and the experimental freeze-dried blood in the trunk of the black limousine that met us, and the three of us piled into the spacious backseat. We exited Le Bourget Airport full of optimism, but frustration grew as the infamous traffic seemed even more intense than usual, threatening to make us late for our meeting.
"It is demonstrators," our driver said from the front seat, his thick accent barely intelligible. "People are crazy with new religion."
Lining the street on both sides, a throng of people chanted and displayed signs. Deciphering the French writing, I was stunned to see that most demanded the country surrender to a group called the Raphaelian Legion of Peace. The car eased to a stop in the midst of traffic chaos, causing George to curse. Horns blared and we heard angry shouts. On a nearby sidewalk, a mob encircled an old woman who clung desperately to a bible in one hand and the wooden post of her sign in the other. It warned not to let the antichrist fool us.
"Uh-oh," George said.
I instantly saw the reason for his concern. Our large car had caught the attention of the mob leader. I watched as he pointed at us and yelled to his followers. He stepped off the curb, followed by his gang, at least leaving the old woman clear to seek safety. She didn't hesitate to scurry away, but we were trapped in traffic as the angry men moved through the cars, aiming straight for us. They announced their arrival by slamming a fist down on the front window, quickly followed by several more. Soon they were at the side windows, pounding on them and trying to claw them down. Monique slid tight against me.
"Can they break the glass?" she asked.
"It is bullet resistant. It won't break easily," the driver said, honking the horn nonstop, sweat beading on his brow.
Outside, people screamed against oppression from the rich and politicians. A cardboard sign slammed against the glass declaring that Raphael will free the world. The car bounced as men and women rocked it back and forth, banged on the hood, and hammered their fists in anger against glass.
"A knife! They'll go for the tires!" George yelled. "Hold this!" He withdrew a nine-millimeter Glock concealed in a shoulder holster and handed it to Moni
que. She juggled the weapon, almost dropping it before she got it under control. He gave her his famous wink, opened the door, and jumped into the fray like a football player heading into the game.
My sharp vision tracked him grabbing the arm holding the knife and bringing the person's wrist down hard against his knee, but the knife didn't drop. Seeing the perceived enemy amongst them, others moved in on George and I quickly lost sight of him. He had succumbed to the frenzied mob, vanishing under a mound of flesh.
"Stay here. I have to help him! Lock the door until it's safe," I told Monique.
I raced out, closing the door behind me, and started pulling bodies off George. I threw them over the cars and back to the curb, surely breaking many bones in the process. One tried to ram his signpost through my abdomen. It splintered against my flesh, sending the assailant away in screaming confusion. Finally, I reached George. He was down on the ground in a defensive fetal position.
"George! Are you okay?" I asked. A moment of no response worried me, but then he began to uncurl and slowly sit up.
"Got the knife," he smiled, displaying a busted lip and bloodied teeth. He held out his hand, which held the knife by the blade.
"Come on!" I helped him up while people screamed around us in pain and rage, but none dared to approach. Monique unlocked the door, allowing us to slide inside. Using his good hand, George lifted the knife from his bloody and split-open palm.
"Why did you grab it by the blade?" Monique asked with dismay.
"It was either grab it or have my belly split wide open."
"That's going to need stitches," she said. "Driver, do you have a clean handkerchief?" He handed her one from his breast pocket. "Wrap it tight."
After a few tense moments, during which we thought the gang would approach again, the traffic eased forward. It was slow at first, but once we made it around a large traffic circle, our pace approached that of a fast walk.
"Bloody Paris," George said in disgust. "We would have been better off renting mopeds." He examined his wounded hand. "The bleeding is minimal. I'll take my gun now if you don't mind." Monique handed the weapon back, looking glad to be rid of it. George gingerly put it in the holster, careful of his injury.
"I hope you're right handed," I said.
"I can shoot with my feet if worse comes to worse," he replied. I believed him.
Out of nowhere, a techno tune started blaring, startling us all. The driver picked a cell phone off the front seat next to him and put it to his ear. I heard a panicked voice on the other end. The driver exchanged rapid-fire French for a few seconds and then hung up.
"This not good," he said over his shoulder.
"What is it?" I asked. He took a hard right and then hit the brakes.
"That," he said, pointing out the front window. A couple blocks up the road, black smoke billowed out of Élysée Palace, while a hoard of people flooded through the front gate. I could see that many carried weapons, including what appeared to be AK-47s and rocket launchers.
"They told me that demonstrators gained entry," the driver added.
"Those aren't demonstrators," I said. "Not armed like that. Did they say anything about the president and prime minister?"
"The president is in a safe room waiting rescue. Sadly, the prime minister did not make it there in time."
As we watched, the demonstrators—obviously trained soldiers—were in the process of setting up a parameter around the large building. The palace itself had an ornate iron gate that led into a large courtyard surrounded by walls several stories high. At the far end of the courtyard lay the palace proper. Of immediate concern were several snipers situating themselves on the palace's walls, and then my gaze traveled to one that was not holding a rifle, but a long green tube instead.
"Rocket launcher! Backup!" I yelled to the driver. High on adrenaline, he reacted instantly, pulling the column shifter into reverse and slamming on the gas pedal. The tires spun as I watched the soldier aim the launcher directly at our limousine. A second later, the smoke of the projectile flamed out of the barrel. The tires caught and the car lurched backwards.
"Turn, turn!" I cried. It appeared to me that the soldier had calculated our reversed trajectory, and the rocket was heading for where we would be if we kept going straight. The driver spun the wheel hard, causing us to careen violently at an angle. We hit a curb, bounced hard onto the sidewalk, and then the rear crashed into a brick storefront that rudely halted our escape.
"Down! Everybody down!" George yelled. They ducked and I shielded Monique just as the rocket hit the street nearby, shattering the windows of the car with an explosive concussion and shrapnel. I felt pinpricks of flaming-hot metal bounce off my head, and knew they were bulleting through the car onto those less protected. Abruptly, the air filled with smoky silence.
"Is everyone okay?" I shouted. George sat up, at first appearing unscathed until I noticed a chunk of one ear missing, blood oozing down his neck.
"The arsehole got part of my ear!" He held his good hand to it, trying to determine the damage while warily looking outside the car.
Monique was uninjured, probably more due to her immortal nature, which I had not fully come to terms with yet, than to my protection. The driver though had taken a deathblow to the chest from a dagger-pointed shard of metal.
"Shit! Bloody fucking shit!" George yelled. "They're coming!" Through the broken side window, I saw machine gun armed soldiers racing towards us.
"I'll hold them off. George, get the driver out and the car going. I'll meet you back at the airport," I ordered.
"Michael, please no," Monique said.
"I'll be fine. We cannot let them take Paris. Go." I opened the door, jumped out, and went to face the enemy.
Up close, the six men appeared to be ragtag terrorists more than professional soldiers. They stopped in the middle of the street and looked amused when they saw me approach unarmed and alone. I held my hands high and walked slowly but purposely towards them.
"Please, don't shoot. Don't shoot," I said repeatedly.
"On the ground!" one said in French, but I pretended not to understand.
"Please, don't shoot. Please." I continued to walk forward.
"Get down, on the ground!" another demanded in English, waving his machine gun threateningly. I stopped, standing about ten feet in front of them. "Down, now!" he yelled again.
I risked a glance back, and no longer saw the driver's head in the front seat of the limo. I could only hope that George was now in his place, sitting low.
"Okay, okay," I said. "But first, who are you?"
"It is none of your concern!"
"What do you want?" I asked, trying to buy time.
"We ask the questions! Who are you? You were in a presidential car."
My ears picked up the limo's transmission clanking into position. Good man, George.
"I asked who you are!" The terrorist raised his AK to shoulder height, finger tightening on the trigger.
"If you had read your bible, you would know who I am, and you would run." My fangs snapped down and I flashed forward, decapitating the six of them with my clawed fingers in a single stroke. I heard the limo's tires squeal, but my main concern was the man with the rocket launcher still on the palace walls. He could take the limo out before George had a chance to get around the corner. I launched into the sky, leaving a sonic boom in my wake.
Hunched over the launcher loading another rocket, the man never saw me coming. My fangs sank deep into the side of his neck and I quickly drank him dry as the bullets of nearby snipers bounced off me. With his surging life force coursing through my veins, I efficiently took the snipers out, too; draining each one, knowing I could no longer afford to play nice.
Crouching on the walkway of the palace walls, I glanced in the direction of the limousine and was relieved to see that it was gone. In the courtyard below, several dead bodies were strewn about, and ten well-armed terrorists stood amongst them. They all looked up nervously; searching for whatev
er was slaughtering their men. It would be a blood bath at my hands, but such is the nature of war. I dove down and hit them full force, achieving bittersweet victory in less than a minute.
Drenched head to toe in moist dark red, I pulled the palace doors open. A lone terrorist stood in the middle of the ornate foyer. The second I entered, he unloaded his machine gun on me. I raced forward and ripped the weapon out of his hand, bent the barrel, and threw it.
"Where's the safe room?" I demanded, bringing my bloodstained fangs close to his eyes.
"Basement! Basement!" he blurted.
"Show me!" I spun him around and shoved him ahead. "Go faster!" I yelled, pushing him on the shoulder.
We hurried through a maze of incredibly plush rooms and golden hallways adorned with renaissance-era paintings. There was a final turn and he stopped before a simple wooden door. Reaching out, he opened it to reveal steep stairs that traveled several stories down.
"Down there," he said.
"After you," I replied, steering him by his arm through the door so that he would be in front of me.
This section of the basement was industrial looking compared to upstairs, and I felt sure its only function was to serve as a safe area. At the bottom of the stairs, a short chiseled-stone hallway turned left and ended in a metal door.
"Where are your friends?" I asked, expecting to see an army trying to get into the safe room.
"That is just the first door. Behind it is a small room from where they are trying to get the safe room door open. I promise, sir!"
I should have expected as much. Politicians protect their lives almost as well as they protect their money. The French president was probably behind a one-foot-thick slab of titanium, counting his cash and sipping champagne while the terrorists murdered his citizens outside.
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