Chuckling a little more, he said, “Although, he’s certainly gonna be pissed when he comes to. Been wanting to do that for five hundred years. Felt good. Damn good.”
In a blur of motion, I trained the business end of my shotgun on the new-comer. Although he had the appearance of your average dude in his late-thirties, the swirling aura of muted colors forming a harrowing silhouette around his large frame indicated something to the contrary. Although I couldn’t tell what he actually was — he certainly wasn’t human.
Quickly taking in his lurking six foot three frame of broad shoulders and hardened yet somewhat jovial face hidden well within a scraggly ginger biker beard, I barked, “Who the hell are you?”
“Name’s MacCawill,” he said, casually plucking the stogie from his mouth and flipping it on the ground. “Roy MacCawill.”
“What the hell are you doing hiding in a cactus?”
“I wasn’t hiding. I was hunting.”
“Hunting what?”
“You, dipshit.”
“What? How’d you know I’d be here?”
“My employer gave me specific instructions. Said I’d find you right here — right now.”
“Employer?”
“You can put that pea shooter down, big mancho. This is a rescue mission. I’m under contract to save your sorry ass. “
“Save me? From him?” I asked, pointing at Remiel. “He was trying to help me, you frigg’n moron.”
“Not from him, ace,” he said, gazing behind me. “From them.”
As the cloak rippled anxiously about my shoulders, I spun around to find Saraquel, Raguel, and half a dozen other heavily armored seraphs shooting me dirty looks from just outside the dome. With wings spread and swords drawn, it was fairly apparent they figured out they’d been duped and were back in town for some serious smiting. Not good.
“Oh, them,” I muttered, facing my new friend. “But why the hell’d you shoot Remiel?”
“Because he’s an asshole,” he simply replied, with a shit eating grin.
“Fair enough,” I muttered, thinking he had a pretty valid point. “Although he was actually starting to grow on me before you went all Terminator 2 on him.”
“We need to go,” he said, pushing his glasses back up on his nose as he stepped toward the cactus escape hatch. “This veil won’t keep the halo half-wits out for much longer. This way.”
“Don’t think so, bud. Stepping through portals with strangers of questionable character and peculiar wardrobes is exactly how I got myself into this mess in the first place. Thanks but I’ll pass. See ya round. And, ah, nice jacket.”
“It’s a duster, slick.”
“Whatever.”
Waving a halfhearted goodbye to the obscure cattle rustler, I focused my will on the Quartermaster and took three bold steps.
Now typically, that little arcane maneuver will instantly transport me just about anywhere I want to go given that I can picture the location clearly in my mind. But, as I still found myself standing in the very same spot after trying it a couple times, I came to a rather unsettling realization. I was either going to have to bite the bullet and go with this MacCawill jackass or turn and face the onslaught of pissed off angels that were seconds away from smashing their way through the rapidly deteriorating protective veil.
“Your little trick didn’t work, did it?” He snickered.
“Not so much.”
“That’s why they picked this place. It’s cursed ground. Damn near impossible to port in and out of.”
“And I assume since you got in, you can get out.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a rescue mission if I couldn’t now would it?”
“Good point.”
“You ready to follow me now, chieftain?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Well,” he replied looking over my shoulder at the celestial lynch mob, “You could always stick around and try to make nice with the fly boys. Good luck with that.”
“Let’s frigg’n go then,” I grumbled. “You try anything, I’ll shoot your ass six ways to Sunday. We clear?”
“Sure thing, budro. Whatever you say.”
“Keep you hands where I can see them. Who the hell knows what else you’ve got stashed in that Inspector Gadget coat.”
“I already told you, douche wagon — It’s a duster.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“That coming from the guy in the cape.”
“Cloak.”
“Whatever.”
Reluctantly following Roy MacCawill and his smart ass mouth through the same cactus that he entered stage left from a few minutes earlier, I looked back and casually flipped off the posse of winged dickheads just before we melted from sight.
Sometimes it’s the little things that puts a smile on my face. And as bad as things seemed at the moment, that little glimmer of happiness was evidently going to have to last me a good long while.
Chapter 11
It is often said that desperate times call for desperate measures. While I’m not sure what literary genius coined that particular sage adage, I had the distinct feeling that the scenario of following a complete stranger, dressed up like an extra from Tombstone, through a dimensional portal hidden in a cactus for the express purpose of escaping a collection of hostile celestial beings was not at the top of his mind when he wrote it.
Nonetheless, as with most great sayings, it applied rather nicely to my current set of circumstances. If for nothing else, at the moment — it seemed I was the definition of desperate. Typical.
Being labeled as a heavenly traitor, and subsequently marked for death by the God squad was not part of the plan. Then, of course, there was the small matter of Stephen — who I could only assume was at the mercy of the real traitor by now, and destined to join the collection of enslaved Deacons in Azazel’s clandestine prison. The more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that that was exactly what the frigg’n barkangel was talking to Azazel about when I voyeured in on their little mountaintop fire side chat.
And if that was the case, aside from the alpha Deacon being out of commission, the frigg’n barkangel now had everything he needed to ascend to Evil Über Deacon status. Which ultimately meant that in addition to man eating giants, the world was about to be introduced to a malevolent god in the near future.
Bad had not become worse — it skipped worse and went straight to ‘holy frigg’n shit.’ And I had the unequivocal feeling it was just the beginning of a maelstrom quality downward spiral.
“You good, slick?” Asked my new buddy, as we fluidly transitioned into a curious, dark space waiting for us on the other end of his cactus escape hatch.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t see much of anything beyond a few feet in front of me because the only light in the mysterious location was being provided by a peculiar lamp shaped like a voluptuous woman’s leg that was perched on a small table. Interestingly, the unmistakable stench of stale beer, cigars, and bacon thickly lingered in the dank, heavy air.
“Dean,” I grumbled.
“Come again?” He asked, taking off his Oakleys and stuffing them in his coat.
“Not slick, or big mancho, or chieftain, or ace, or budro, or douche wagon, or any other dumbass thing you feel like calling me. My name is Dean.”
“I know your name, hondo. Be right back. Need to make sure none of your halo’d BFFs followed us. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Hold on a damn second,” I protested as he simply took a step toward the light and vanished in midstride. “Or just ignore me and evaporate into thin air. That’s fine too. Frigg’n jackass.”
Although I had no idea who the hell this MacCawill character actually was nor who he supposedly worked for, I was a bit grateful that he helped me give the archangels the momentary slip. That being said, it was high time to ditch his sorry ass and get the hell out of Dodge — or wherever I was at the moment.
I needed to get back to the QM. Bringing Abernethy, Rooster, and the team up to s
peed on current events was more than critical. There was little doubt in my mind that they’d already heard the fantastic news about me and Stephen being elevated to Heaven’s Most Wanted status by now. There was also little doubt in my mind they believed any bit of that bullshit story.
And although my epic mission to Paradise City to sniff out the barkangel turned out to be an epic misadventure to the Arizona desert to sniff some cacti — Remiel did give me an interesting piece of intelligence before catching MacCawill’s grenade in the chest.
The Vessel. The Vessel was the key to opening the gates of Tartarus. And more importantly, it seemed to be hidden.
Of course there was the small matter that I had no earthly idea what in the hell the Vessel actually was, but that was more information than I had a few hours ago. Information I needed to get back to the team.
The Azazel apocalypse clock was rapidly ticking away and the situation was now a bit more complicated — to put it ever so mildly.
To that end, I again focused my thoughts on the Quartermaster and took three bold steps. Fully expecting to instantly port myself out of MacCawill’s hidey hole, I was more than disappointed when absolutely nothing happened. Trying it a few more times with the same result, I muttered, “Son of a bitch.”
“Sorry, chiefy,” MacCawill snarkily remarked, silently reappearing right in front of me. “That’s not gonna work here either.”
“Why’s that?” I grumbled.
“This place has more wards than Chins in a Chinese phonebook. Aside from keeping me well off the radar, they also ensure nothing gets in — and nothing gets out. So chillax. You’re safer here for the moment anyway. Trust me.”
“Look, bud,” I muttered, casually holstering my shotgun as I willed the gauntlets into being and grinned as they covered my hands and forearms in unbreakable, ashen hellstone, “Appreciate your help in the desert but there’s some serious shit going down and I need to leave — now. So, you can either drop your wards and let me zip out of here like a gentleman or I’m going to beat you like a trench coated punching bag until that scraggly beard falls off your face.”
“No, no, and yes,” he said, in a manner indicating he was clearly unimpressed by my not so veiled threat.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“No — you’re not leaving. No — I’m not dropping my wards. And yes — I’d be happy to whoop your cape wearing ass and stick you in the corner if you give me anymore shit.”
“I already told you,” I grumbled. “It’s a frigg’n cloak.”
And then I sunk all my weight into a devastating right hook that ripped through the air in a blur of motion and connected my stone covered fist squarely with his jaw. As his head whipped around from the blunt impact causing his stupid ass stetson to sail into the darkness, I dropped a left cross straight into his midsection that instantly doubled him over in a state of wincing pain. Lowering an elbow into his back for good measure, the poor bastard plummeted to the floor with a groaning thud that echoed rather nicely throughout the room.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” he grunted, sprawled out at my feet like a sack of potatoes.
“Do I keep going or you ready to let me out of here, ace?”
Slowly pushing himself off the ground in attempt to shake off the shellacking he just took, he muttered, “Fifteen minutes.”
“Come again?”
“In fifteen minutes, I’m supposed to bring you to my employer.”
“What, so he can try to kill me next?”
“No, dipshit. If he wanted you dead, he would have let the halos end your ass. He wants to talk to you. He has the information you need.”
“And then what?”
“You’re free to go on about your epic quest to save the world and shit.”
“Who the hell is this guy?”
“Someone with the balls to stand against the archangels. Which at the very least makes him an enemy of your enemy. For the time being.”
“What’s his frigg’n name?”
“Can’t tell you that. Part of the deal. But rest assured, he’s evidently looking out for your best interest.”
“I can look after my own best interest.”
“Well, dumbass,” he said, back on his feet and trying to snap his jawbone back into place, “Seeming as though you’ve been marked for death by the seraphic court — I’d disagree. You’ve got a price on your head big enough to buy a couple continents. Soon as you pop back on the grid, every big nasty between here and the damn outer realms of Hell will be on you like stink on shit. And that’s if the halos don’t find you first. Or worse. The chance to off a Deacon and get paid for it? Trust me, mancho, that’s going bring some scary powerful sons of bitches — and their freaking moms — gunning for your ass. Believe it.”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Because I’m a bounty hunter, moron.”
“A bounty hunter,” I muttered, thinking I should probably start hitting him some more just because.
“Here’s the deal, slick. My job was to get you out of that desert before you got halo jacked. If by some small margin of luck I actually succeeded, my employer instructed me to bring you to him. That’s it.”
“And Remiel?”
“Don’t ask me why but he’s working with us. As such, he gave up the exact location they were taking you. That’s how I knew where to tether that portal. Said I’d have a two-minute window for the extraction before his butt buddies came back and made things interesting.”
“Remiel said something about a vessel before you decided to turn him into a purple flame ball. What do you know about that?”
“Nothing. In my line of work it doesn’t pay to ask a lot of questions.”
“So what’s in this for you, bounty hunter?”
“Well, aside from my life long aspiration of making Remiel look like a little bitch is the small matter of a not-so small fortune. So, there you go. Way I see it, you can keep punching me until you get tired or we can have a beer then go see my boss so you can get some answers. And I can get paid. What’s it gonna be, ace?”
Not entirely convinced that MacCawill was the most trustworthy of sorts, it seemed I didn’t have much of a choice but to play along. If half of what he said was true, I couldn’t risk going back to the Quartermaster.
Not yet.
I was on my own until I figured out what the hell was actually going on. And to do that, it seemed I needed to talk to MacCawill’s mysterious employer.
“Alright,” I reluctantly grumbled.
“We good?”
“We’re good.”
“Almost,” he said, extending his hand to evidently seal our newly formed partnership of necessity.
And wouldn’t you know that as soon as I grabbed his right hand and gave it a firm shake, that son of a bitch belted me in the face with a stiff left hook. Should’ve seen that coming. Typical.
As the force of the crushing blow literally lifted me off my feet and slammed me into the wall next to his creepy stripper lamp, I made the mental note that there was a bit more to Roy MacCawill than met the eye.
“Now we’re good,” he said with a shit eating grin as he produced a fresh cigar from his coat and clenched it in his teeth. “Make yourself at home. My casa is your casa. Welcome to the Man Cave.”
Spitting out a healthy wad of blood, I muttered, “Thanks, asshole.”
Retrieving his cowboy hat from the floor, he yelled, “Hey Zig, can we get some light in here please? And how about bringing our visitor a beer before he gets violent again.”
“But of course, sir,” a subservient male voice excitedly called out from the darkness with a detectable British accent. “A visitor? How exciting! We never have visitors!”
Staggering back to my feet while wondering who the hell just said that, an antique brass lantern fastened to the wall on my immediate left, flickered to life and a warm, orange glow began to slowly overtake the darkness. As my eyes started to adjust, another l
antern further down the wall followed suit. Then another. And another. Standing in mild bewilderment as the sequence continued along the walls of the sizable, rectangular room, I was more than a bit taken aback when the entire place was finally bathed in soft light.
“Damn,” I muttered, willing the cloak and gauntlets into retreat. “Went a bit literal on the whole man cave concept, eh?”
Although furnished rather poshly with exquisite leather furniture, I found myself standing in an obscure alcove within an actual cave. Stepping into the main cavern, I was somewhat stunned to realize that it didn’t appear to be naturally formed. Instead, it was expertly hewn out of solid rock in a perfect rectangular shape. And judging by the fact that there were no visible entrances or exits, I also assumed that it was carved from the inside out. Exactly how such a feat was possible remained a mystery.
“Yep. It’s ghetto fabulous. Chicks dig it. Well, I’m sure they would if I ever brought any chicks here.”
“What is this place?”
“One of my safe houses,” he replied, strolling toward a stunning, dark wooden bar on the far wall. Biting the end off his cigar, he lit it with a wooden match and took a hefty puff.
Taking a curious glance around, I couldn’t help but be impressed. It was roughly the size of a three car garage with an arched ceiling looming a few feet above my head. The chiseled walls were inlaid with intricate carvings of sigils, glyphs, and Enochian script that literally ran from floor to ceiling throughout the entire cavity. The floor was a stunning pattern of alternating rich wooden panels of various sizes and shapes that inexplicably melded together perfectly.
To the right of the bar, which boasted five or so taps of what appeared to be delectable craft beer, was a collection of buzzing computers and gaming consoles complemented by a flickering arrangement of huge flat panel screens forming a cockpit around a oversized leather bean bag. Rounding out the obscure dwelling was a ginormous fridge, a commercial grade stainless steel stove top, and a gun rack displaying enough firepower to conduct a frontal assault on the gates of Hell.
Wrath of the Fallen: The Guild of Deacons, Book 2 Page 9
