Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm

by G T Almasi

The nitwit’s shouting and shrieking are a lot louder this time, and Victor slaps his face. “Talk or she tears them all off!”

  I comm, “You really want me to do that?”

  Victor nods and comms back, “He is Gestapo.”

  “Ah,” I reply.

  But Gestapo or not, Mr. Greasy’s pain threshold is somewhere below having his arm nearly wrenched off, and he passes out again.

  “Fuck,” I say. “Sorry, Victor.”

  “Do not worry. He will wake up.” Victor stands up and runs his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. He looks around our subterranean setting and grunts, “Interesting.”

  “What?”

  “This tunnel is from World War I.”

  Vicberg’s army time included a bunch of military history classes, so he knows a lot about the trench warfare that stretched across France from 1914 to 1918. He tells me one of the tactics employed by both sides was to mine under the enemy’s trench system, cram in an assful of TNT, and then blast the enemy to smitherooskies. Because of the war’s ebb and flow, sometimes the project would be abandoned, which Victor guesses is the case here. After the war some of these tunnels and mine shafts became part of vast underground systems for smuggling.

  The tunnel has been maintained, probably first by the French Resistance back in the 1940s and now apparently by the Gestapo for sneaking rat-faced shitbirds like Mr. Greasy around the town of Thiepval.

  “Scarlet, bzzt did bzzt-bzzt guys go?” It’s Brando. His signal is weak, but I still catch the stress in his voice.

  “Darwin, we’re down under the monument.”

  “What? I bzzt barely bzzt-bzzt.”

  I max out my commphone’s volume. “HANG ON! I’ll come up!” I run up the tunnel and ascend the stairs. I find the switch that opens the panel from the inside.

  I peek my head out. Brando and Falcon are right in front of me, but they’re facing the other way. I draw in a huge breath.

  “BOO!”

  They both jump six inches. Falcon spins toward me with his hand on his pistol’s holster.

  Brando leans forward with his hand on his knees. “Jesus!” my partner gasps.

  Falcon’s mouth splits into a wide grin, and he laughs. Naturally it reminds me of my father’s laugh, and as usual a shiver courses over my back, down my arms, and across my wrists. I clench my hands to make it stop.

  “That was outrageous.” Falcon jovially bumps my arm as he enters the secret chamber. He walks down the stairs. His voice echoes from below, “Man, this place is rad.”

  I pull Brando inside the column and close the panel behind him. “Gotcha good, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Real good.”

  As we descend the stairs, I ask, “What happened to Kruppe?”

  “He drove to Thiepval’s town hall, waved his ID, and went in past the gate. The place is like a fortress: armed guards, barriers, spotlights, the works. There was no way Falcon and I could get in there without more prep, so we came back here.” He takes my hand in his when we get to the bottom of the stairs. We hold hands until we get close to Victor and Mr. Greasy, who have been joined by Falcon.

  The Gestapo courier has woken up again. He tries to scoot away from me as I approach. Victor comms, “Scarlet, give him a scare.”

  I rush to Mr. Greasy and latch onto his uninjured arm like I’m going to dislocate that one too.

  “No!” he shouts. “Please, no!”

  “Then talk, Herr Ludwig,” Victor intones.

  I guess this sucker has a name, after all. But he still doesn’t want to spill the beans. I say out loud, “Anybody want a wing?”

  Herr Ludwig cries inconsolably. His mouth gapes open, and tears stream from his eyes.

  Victor punches Ludwig’s face. “TELL ME!”

  “I … I dare not. They will, they …” Herr Ludwig descends into unintelligible blubbering.

  Victor looms over his prisoner. He plants his hands on his hips and sticks out his chin. “Scarlet, I want you to tear pieces off him off until—”

  “Wait.” It’s Brando. “Let’s use this.” From his X-bag he produces a pair of needles, each connected to a heavy little box by long coiled wires.

  I put my hand on Falcon’s arm. “You better back up, F-Bird. This gets real messy.”

  Herr Ludwig’s face has gone white as a sheet. He’s so scared of those big needles I swear the jagoff has stopped moving at the molecular level.

  “Looks like our man here knows about the Thackery Procedure,” I comm.

  “He should,” Victor answers coldly. “The Gestapo invented it.”

  Herr Ludwig’s attention is riveted on Brando’s hands. This time when he opens his mouth, it isn’t to scream or curse. It’s to sing like a canary.

  “Reims!” he peals. “Kruppe is going to Reims!”

  “Why Reims?”

  Our captive’s eyes are locked on the needles. Brando wiggles them back and forth and repeats Victor’s question. “Why-y-y Reims?”

  “La Jeune.” Herr Ludwig chokes out. His eyes flutter. We’re losing him again. “Michel La Jeune. In Reims.” He passes out and slumps into his jacket.

  “Mein Gott,” Victor exclaims. “I know Michel!” Victor looks at his watch. “And Kruppe has the lead on us. Hurry, my friends. We must go.”

  Brando stuffs the Thackery needles back in his X-bag as we all light out toward the spiral stairs. “Who is this person, Victor?”

  “Michel La Jeune is a good man and very well connected to our cause. Garbo told me he now runs a safe house in Reims. He must be protected.”

  We scurry up the stairs, burst out of the secret panel, and gallop to the car.

  Falcon comms, “Can I drive?”

  I comm back, “I think I’d better—”

  “No,” my partner comms. “Scarlet, your foot is injured, and driving won’t help it.” He opens the front passenger door. “Let’s see what Falcon can do behind the wheel.”

  Falcon grins broadly and pops in the driver’s seat while Victor and I climb in back. The kid fires up the ignition, floors the gas, and lays a smoking pair of black stripes across the parking lot. We all hang on tight. Falcon slides us onto the main street, and we thunder out of town.

  “WELL,” Brando hails over the car’s wailing engine, “we know he can do that.”

  38

  Next morning, Sunday, March 8, 1981, 7:49 A.M. CET

  Reims, Province of France, GG

  “This can’t be the place,” I say from the rear seat of our BMW. I lean across Victor’s lap to see out his window. Falcon hunches behind the wheel, and Brando sits up front next to him.

  “This is where Garbo told me La Jeune is based,” Victor says, glancing at his watch. Navigating around all the German roadblocks has made this drive take longer than he hoped.

  “Radical.” Falcon nods. “Who’d ever search for the Resistance here?”

  We’re in front of the monstrously tall and outrageously decorative towers of Reims’s Cathedral of Notre-Dame. The facade contains so many statues and stone carvings it looks like a thirty-story wedding cake. We’ve been using this place as a visual landmark since we were on the highway, but I never thought it was where we were going.

  Falcon drives down a side street and pulls into the private lot of a small office building. One of the best things about riding around in stolen cars is not caring where we park. Go ahead and tow it, fuckos. It’s not ours anyway!

  My partner pivots around in his seat so he can see me. “How’s your foot?”

  “It’d be a lot worse if I didn’t have Overkaine.” My right foot has swollen up from the buckshot pedicure I got in Saint-Quentin.

  “Maybe you should stay here. We can meet La Jeune.”

  “No way.” I open my door. “We’ve never met this hombre, and I might have to shoot him for you.”

  Brando rolls his eyes as he follows me out of the car.

  We walk across the open plaza in front of the cake-shaped cathedral. As we approach the Cake, Victor fi
lls us in. “I know this man from my days in Holland. He was active in the Dutch Underground during the war. He is good at what he does, although I think he has become too vocal in his opposition to the policies of the Reich.”

  My partner turns to the famously outspoken military leader of the Circle of Zion and says, “Isn’t that a bit ironic coming from you?”

  “Ha.” Victor smiles. “Perhaps it is, but we each have our roles. Mine is to be the voice of the Resistance. This defines the range of what I am capable of contributing. Monsieur La Jeune could contribute so much more if he stayed—how do you Americans say?—below the radar.”

  We enter through one of the big arched doorways and take a moment to let our eyes adjust to the dimmed interior.

  Sunlight filters through the extravagant stained glass windows and spreads across the tiled floor and soaring stone pillars like Technicolor butter. A few people sit or kneel in the pews, deep in contemplation. We all lower our voices to hushed whispers. Every step we take echoes down the looming and massive central nave. The sound seems like it resonates forever.

  We glide over to the visitors’ desk and ask for Michel La Jeune. The ancient old woman behind the counter goggles up at us through Coke-bottle glasses. “More of you?” She points her bony finger at a small door beside the first chapel on the left and cackles, “Michel must be having quite a party!”

  I comm, “What the hell is she talking about?”

  Brando leads us across to the chapel, “I guess Michel has other visitors from the Circle.”

  The small door abruptly swings open. Four tense men parade out of the corridor beyond and shoulder their way past our group. I stifle a gasp and turn my face away.

  One of the men is Johannes Kruppe.

  None of them seem to notice us even though we’re right in front of them. They’re neatly dressed in button-down shirts and sport coats, but one of the thugs is a bit of a slob. His coat is wrinkled, and it looks like he got some of his breakfast sausage on his tie.

  I comm on our team channel, “Darwin, do you recognize that white-haired bastard?”

  Victor isn’t wearing his comm set, but he sees our expressions. He discreetly holds his palm out to us, shakes his head, and then points at himself.

  Kruppe separates from the other three men and walks out the cathedral’s front door. Without another word, Vic follows him. The rest of us exchange glances.

  Spontaneously, my partner and I both whisper, “Okay, bye, Victor!”

  Falcon snickers at the two of us parroting each other. We watch the remaining three palookas as they walk up the main aisle, deeper into the cathedral.

  Brando comms, “Scarlet, you’d better follow the sport coat guys. Falcon, come with me.”

  Falcon and I simultaneously comm, “Roger that,” and smile. Spending a week in a car together has all of us talking like Huey, Louie, and Dewey, where we start and finish each other’s sentences.

  Brando and Falcon plunge through the small door next to the chapel. I shift into innocent, not-a-spy mode and follow the three sport coats. I dose Overkaine for my foot and Madrenaline for my reflexes.

  The three coats have reached the hugely ornate altar, where the main aisle crosses the side transepts. One of the tidy sports coats looks about twenty years older than his companions. I nickname these jokers Slobbo, Geezo, and Stretcho because the young one with no food on him is also the tallest.

  The three coats step up onto the central riser. Geezo slithers around behind it and bends down out of sight. Stretcho and Slobbo keep watch. I pretend to admire the intricate, snaking stonework on the ceiling while my feet edge closer to the altar.

  Brando comms, “Scarlet, do you have eyes on those men?”

  “Affirmative, Darwin.”

  “Well, keep your distance. Michel La Jeune has been shot through the head. He’s also had one of his arms removed.”

  “What, from an old injury or something?”

  “No, I mean his arm is lying right next to his body. It’s been ripped out of its socket. They must have heard what we did to Herr Ludwig last night.”

  God almighty, who are these brutes? I’ve shuffled to within ten yards of the altar. Slobbo gives me the hairy eyeball and opens his mouth to say something. I turn my back to him and admire the massive rose window over the cathedral’s entrance. I hear a metallic click as Slobbo cocks an automatic pistol.

  Game on. I release a heavy dose of Madrenaline and whip Li’l Bertha out of her holster. I leap as high as I can and twist in the air to face Slobbo. He’s got excellent reflexes and gets off the first shot, but he’s aimed too low. His bullet slowly streaks toward my thighs. I spread my legs apart into a midair split. As his shot zips under me, my pistol spits a slug at his face. He almost gets away from it. Instead of hitting him in the center of his nose, where Li’l Bertha was pointed, my shot nails him in the outer edge of his eye socket. The bullet takes a weird bounce and comes out the left side of his neck. His face collapses in on itself as a cloud of blood and bone chips blooms around his head.

  I land on the altar’s platform, close to Stretcho. He runs at me. I don’t get nearly as much time to react to it as I think I should. What’s wrong with my Madrenaline? I dose some more, which speeds me up and makes my skin tingle, but I still barely have time to sidestep Stretcho’s lunge. He passes me. I turn to hit him in the back of his head, but he’s already spun around and throws a punch at me.

  Crap! Why am I so slow? I juke away from his haymaker and sweep a kick at his legs to knock him down. He avoids my attack and counters with a straight-on kick at my chest. I lean away, but his heel hits my arm and I have to tumble backward to get onto my feet.

  Wait a sec, maybe it’s not that I’m slow. A terrible idea dawns in my mind. I fire point blank at my opponent’s stomach. Stretcho slips his entire body out of the way of my bullet. His speed is superhuman.

  Fuck me, these guys are Levels.

  I comm, “Darwin! They’re enhanced!”

  “Can you evade them?”

  “Negative! I’m too close. Falcon, get your ass up here!”

  Falcon’s comm voice speaks with unusual rapidity. “On my way, Scarlet.”

  Geezo joins the party and fills the air with bullets while I fend off a flurry of martial-arts attacks from his younger colleague. The noise is spectacular. Gunshots in this space sound like cannon fire and nearly drown out the screaming civilians.

  “Scarlet,” Victor comms, “what’s going on?” He’s put his comm set back on. “Should I return?”

  I comm, “Stay out of here, Vicberg. These assholes are too fast for you!” They might be too fast for me.

  I trick Geezo into firing a shot that hits Stretcho in the arm, but the tall son of a bitch is so hopped up he doesn’t slow down at all. Tracking Stretcho’s fists and Geezo’s bullets overtaxes my system, and I slip off the platform and topple to the cold tiled floor. Stretcho lunges off the platform to stomp me. I roll out of the way like a hot dog in a skillet.

  Another gun fires. Falcon is shooting from the back of the church. Stretcho ducks under the bullet. His distraction gives me time to karate-chop one of his ankles. He doesn’t fall, but my strike staggers him. My synthetic right hand squeezes into a fist to smash his kneecap.

  Stretcho exhales sharply, and his body goes slack. I look up. My competitor’s left temple has a round hole it in. As I skitter away from my collapsing enemy, something rips through his neck, most of his nose vanishes, and his front teeth shatter to pieces.

  “Got him!” It’s Falcon. That kid’s aim is fucking incredible.

  By the time Stretcho hits the floor, the structural integrity of his skull has been so severely compromised that his head shatters like a vase in a rubber bag. A pool of gray and red liquid splooshes out.

  Geezo sprints past me toward the cathedral’s exit. I avoid his poorly aimed shot and roll to my feet, “Brando, Falcon—the last one is coming your way!”

  “Roger that. We’ve got the exit blocked.”


  I chase the older enemy agent. He evades a shot from Falcon and changes direction. Our quarry streaks through a door that opens into the south tower. He runs up a flight of stone stairs. I rush after him. The rapid-fire echoes of our footsteps are joined by Falcon’s behind me.

  We all bound up several steps at a time. I’m only a few paces behind Geezo, but the twist of the stairway is so tight I can’t get a shot at him. Soon the racket of our footsteps is accompanied by the gasps of our heavy breathing. As we near the top of the tower, I can’t help but remember the chase up the Eiffel Tower I did last year. There’s no way this buffoon has a parachute too.

  Geezo’s footsteps stop echoing. He must have made it to the top. I emerge into the bright European sunshine just as Geezo throws himself off this tower and sails toward the cathedral’s other tower. What a jump!

  He doesn’t land on top of the other tower, but he grabs some of the decorative stonework along its side and sticks like a fly. Before I can sight my pistol on him, he swings himself around the corner onto the tower’s east face. I can barely see him among all the ornamental architecture as he lowers himself toward the building’s main roof. Falcon runs up behind me, and before I can stop him, he’s leaped off the tower too.

  The kid purposely lets himself fall a little ways before he grabs a handhold. He wants to cut the enemy agent off, but our prey has almost reached the main roof already.

  “F-Bird, he’s almost down. Keep on him and I’ll cover this side.”

  Falcon comms, “Okay,” and speedily crab-crawls down the tower’s decoration.

  There’s no time for a normal descent. I vault over the side and fall, inches from the face of the tower. I quickly catch and release as many swirly stone elements as I can to control my speed. Before I hit the roof, I clutch one piece as hard as I can and rip the thing out of its mount. I land on all fours and skitter away from the falling stonework. A wave of pain erupts from my right foot and burns up my leg.

  I cry out and pick myself up. “Darwin, our target has descended the north tower to the main roof.”

  “Roger, Scarlet,” Brando comms. “I’m already in the car.”

  “Great, stay close. We’re gonna need a fast pickup.”