“Myself and Val, we steal car, back home. Good living, there. Much better than here. Of course, here is easy.” Feliks popped a breath mint into his mouth, sucked on it noisily. “Here, police only try to arrest you. Don’t shoot you so much. No rifles.”
Val pulled his shirt back down. “We decide to come to America, I tell Feliks, no more. No more steal car. I don’t want shooting me. But.” He shrugged. “You know? Regular jobs is hard. No money working in factory or something. Plus, is very hard, with so much English speaking. But then there is car to steal, always. Fast money. Some things, I think, come natural.”
Feliks nodded, looking thoughtful. “Yes. Natural. Some have talent.”
“Yes, I must tell you.” Val put an arm around Geneva’s shoulders, making her cringe. “I tell you Feliks is artist. Is true. Listen. We are in America one day only, just twenty-four hour. I say to him, ‘I love Corvette. Is my favorite car, always. And here is beautiful red Corvette, park all alone.’ And Feliks say to me, ‘We must take it, of course.’ But the alarm system is what worry me. Alarm, I am not so very good.”
Feliks jabbed a finger in the air and rattled off something Geneva couldn’t follow.
Val held up his free hand. “Wait, wait. I am telling.” He turned back to Geneva, shifting his arm across her shoulders, making her feel trapped beneath the weight of his body. “So Feliks have idea. We get drill, big one. Make hole in fender. Corvette body is making not of metal.”
“Fiberglass,” Feliks said, grinning.
“Yes, fiberglass. So is easy to drill through, make hole in battery. Let water draining out of battery. Ah? So. Dead battery. No power for alarm. Just break in, pop hood, put in brand-new battery. Da! Driving off into sunset.”
The Ukrainians beamed at her. Lanny’s eyes looked up at her in the rearview mirror. He shook his head.
She tried to smile. “Sounds nice. You know. If you’re a criminal.” She lifted Val’s arm off of her shoulder. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
Feliks and Val traded glances. Feliks rubbed his nose and faced front again.
The Ukrainians didn’t say anything else as they drove through Commerce City. The traffic got heavier, which made Geneva a little nervous. She didn’t like feeling surrounded on the road. Especially when she wasn’t behind the wheel. Lanny had a strange way of driving. He would coast along on the straight roads, almost too slow, and then floor it whenever he needed to change lanes. All the changes in speed, with the Bronco’s spongy suspension, were starting to make her sick. She reached down and touched the backpack between her feet to make sure it was still there.
They drove past a refinery of some kind. Three smokestacks rose overhead, the tallest one painted with red and white stripes. Huge plumes of steam gushed into the overcast sky.
“Turn here,” Feliks said, pointing off the side of the road.
Lanny bent over the wheel, looking to the right. “What, at the light?”
“No. Here. Now!”
Lanny slowed the old Bronco to a crawl. A horn honked behind them.
“Man, what you talking about? On the railroad tracks?”
“No! Before tracks!” Feliks jabbed his finger rapid-fire at the window. “Here! Turn now!”
Val leaned forward. “Is why we have four-wheel drive. You see?”
“Yeah, I see.” Lanny didn’t sound happy at all.
Geneva saw what he meant. Feliks was pointing down a bare slope that was mostly mud.
Lanny turned the Bronco. The whole truck rocked back and forth as the tires dropped off the pavement, one by one. “You got roads in the Ukraine, man? Pavement? You understand what that means?”
“Go along building here.”
“This is America, man. In America, we drive on the road.”
The strip of mud ran between the railroad tracks and a long concrete building. Someone had painted the entire building white, including the windows. Half the windows were smashed in, and the walls were tagged with spray paint. Geneva didn’t like the look of it.
“All right, now what?”
“Stop truck. We are here.” Feliks got out as soon as the Bronco stopped.
Val helped Geneva out. Her boots squished in the mud. He didn’t let go of her hand at first, so she pulled it away. To cover it up, she reached back into the truck and got out her backpack, then slung it over her shoulder.
Lanny came around the front of the truck, his eyes darting from the abandoned building to the Ukrainians. He didn’t look happy about the situation either. Geneva edged in behind him. She reached a hand into the jacket and charged up the pulser.
The Ukrainians led them down a dirty steel grating to a rusting door. It screeched when it opened. Geneva stepped through into pale light coming from high above. Pools of shadow gathered around abandoned factory machines and conveyor belts. The air smelled like dust, cold mildew and exhaust.
An overhead door was open at the far end, showing glimpses of traffic passing on the road they’d just left. A dirty, brown-striped RV sat with its rear end near the doorway, its engine chugging away.
Lanny turned to watch Feliks closing the door behind them. “Man, you guys got some plush digs. You know that? How much you pay for this place?”
“Jokes,” Feliks said. He sniffed. “Always jokes.”
The side door of the RV banged open and an old frowning man in a black leather jacket climbed out. Inside the RV, on the floor, Geneva caught a glimpse of what looked like ammo boxes. Then he shut the door and ambled over to them.
Val bent down and whispered in Geneva’s ear, “Don’t be afraid.” He smiled at her and went over to stand by the old man. Feliks followed him.
Lanny held out his hand. “Kutuzov, my man.”
Kutuzov ignored Lanny and cleared his throat, taking his time about it. The noise echoed in the room. He spit into a handkerchief and put it in his pocket. “So. Feliks tell me you wish to buy weapons now. Of course, you bring money.”
Lanny let his hand drop and gave Kutuzov a funny look. “Money? Man, you forget how much you owe me?”
“Owe you. Yes, I remember.” Kutuzov nodded, slowly. Then he shrugged. “Tell me, where is your friend? You know? The one who like to wave his gun around. Instead you bring girl.”
“You. Owe. Me.”
“Yes. Funny thing, you keep telling me. Big, fat stacks of Ben Franklin. I remember.” Kutuzov smiled a mouthful of pitted teeth. “Now what is funny, you come to me, you want something. Well, my friend, of course I help you. Because we all such good friends here. I try to pay you once, you don’t accept. So the deal is done. Now, you want something else, is new deal. You bring money.”
Lanny grinned, let out a little laugh, and then a louder one. He shook his head, still smiling, letting the laugh wind down. “Man, now that is the funniest shit I heard all day. You know that?” He looked around at Feliks and Val, and let out one loud bark of a laugh. He straightened his jacket, and it fell open. The chrome revolver in his belt flashed in the pale light. “I’ll tell you what, my man. I hope you’re practicing your stand-up routine. I hope you’re planning on going to Vegas with that.” Lanny’s face went dead serious. “Because I play for keeps, dog. I already gave you one chance. I don’t give no second chances. We clear?”
Feliks and Val looked at Kutuzov, and then back at Lanny.
Lanny rested his hand on the grip of his revolver.
Kutuzov frowned, making the creases deepen around his mouth.
Nobody moved. Outside, on the street, an ambulance siren started up and then faded into the distance.
“Hey, you guys,” Geneva said, and all of them looked at her, even Lanny. Kutuzov didn’t move an inch, but his gaze slid over toward her, like the eyes of a lizard.
“You want to see something?” She reached inside her jacket and pulled out the pulser, slowly, holding it by the barrel. She held it up for them to see. “Bet you never seen one of these before.”
Kutuzov gave her an annoyed jerk with his chi
n. “What is this?”
“I’ll show you.” She aimed at the cab of the RV. It was splashed with mud, and it definitely wasn’t the newest thing on the road. But it was new enough to have an electronic ignition. That was all she needed.
She slid her aim a little forward, right at the center of where the engine would be. She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger.
She could see the flash of the pulse beam though her eyelids. For a split second, the world glowed with energy. A high-voltage sizzle filled the air. The tiny hairs on her arms stood on end. The RV’s engine died instantly.
She opened her eyes. The Ukrainians blinked against the flash, staring at the RV. It didn’t look any different from the outside, but Geneva knew its circuits were fried. The sudden silence was deafening.
She swung the pulser around on the Ukrainians. “Sorry, guys.” Feliks and Val pulled big black pistols out of their coats. She squeezed the trigger, catching Feliks and Kutuzov in the fat white beam, and then Val with the second shot. He dropped to the floor, blond hair flying.
Lanny pulled out his little revolver and backed away from Geneva, aiming at the unconscious Ukrainians. “Damn, girl!”
Geneva shoved the pulser back into her jacket. “Come on. They’ll wake up in a minute. Let’s get the stuff.”
“Hold up.” Lanny dug his hand in his pocket and walked over to the Ukrainians.
She stopped halfway to the RV. “What are you doing?”
“Tying these puppies up, man, what do you think? Tell you what, we get done here, I’m calling the damn FBI. Anonymous. Let ‘em know who’s in town with twenty gees of coke and no green card.” He leaned over Kutuzov. “You hear me, bitch? Cold War wasn’t nothing compared to me.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Mitch poked around the room at the wood paneling, the picture of the president, the filing cabinets. No clock in the room, so he had no idea how long they’d kept him here. Apparently, they were letting him cool his heels. Trying to wear down his resistance, so he’d talk.
Like hell he would.
The picture of the president was a good yard tall and a couple feet wide. Had a thick wood frame. Mitch got his fingers underneath the edge. It didn’t budge.
He planted one foot against the wall, grunted and pulled harder. A peeling sound came from beneath the picture. Slowly, it pulled away from the wall, leaving wide patches of yellow foam glue behind.
Mitch hefted the picture to the floor. It weighed a good ten pounds. He figured it would do.
He carried it down to the doors at the end. On the inside, they looked like ordinary wood-paneled doors, except without handles. Mitch had seen the steel on the outside. This thing was an airtight ocean shipping container. There was no way he was going to break through it.
He leaned the picture on the floor, against the wall, and hammered on the door with his fist. He kept pounding until he heard a rattle on the other side.
A few seconds later, it opened. One of the crew-cut guys in a business suit stood outside, holding a submachine gun. The way he was breathing, Mitch figured he’d just come running.
Good.
No one else was outside. Just a row of shipping containers lit from high overhead by fluorescent lights.
Mitch said, “I want to talk to the boss man.”
“He’s not here. You’ll have to wait.”
Mitch looked past him at the white row of containers. Still nobody there. “Oh, wait, here he comes,” Mitch lied. “Hey, Arthur!”
Crew-cut looked over his shoulder.
Mitch lifted the picture of the president and stepped back, swung the picture around in an arc. Crew-cut turned back toward Mitch just before the solid wood corner of the frame connected with his head. The guy staggered.
Mitch followed him out into the aisle and swung the picture up overhead. He brought it down, and the wood splintered on impact. Crew-cut crumpled to the ground and didn’t move.
Mitch tossed the flapping remains of the picture back into the office. He snatched up the guy’s gun and pulled the strap free.
Voices came at him from down the aisle of white boxes. A woman giving orders. A radio squawking.
Mitch dragged Crew-cut into the office and dropped him on the floor. Then he stepped out and shut the door behind him.
The ventilation overhead rattled to life. Mitch looked over both shoulders, seeing no one, and stepped back to peer up at the top of the container. An eight-inch ribbed plastic hose curved up from the roof of the office container and headed away from him.
He slipped into the shadowed space between two containers and crept toward the other end, following the hose. The containers were barely a yard apart, forty feet long and placed end to end. It made one hell of a long, narrow alley. He moved as fast as he could without making noise.
He checked the submachine gun. He’d never fired one before, never even held one. It was heavier than it looked. Somebody had unscrewed the tip of the barrel, leaving a small threaded nub sticking out of the front grip. It looked weird. Weird and mean.
He realized he should have patted Crew-cut’s pockets for extra ammo. He had the feeling if he pulled this thing’s trigger, he’d empty the clip in about one second flat.
Two people walked past the end of the alley in front of him, a woman in a lab coat and a guy in a business suit. The woman said, “If the information is accurate, we don’t need him, then. Let’s verify the location.” Her voice faded as they walked away. The radio squawked again, but Mitch couldn’t make out the words.
He sagged against the cold metal wall, breathing hard, realizing how close he’d come to shooting them, giving himself away. And they hadn’t even seen him.
Very carefully, he pulled his finger away from the trigger and pointed it out straight. He held it that way until he got to the end of the alley. Slowly, he peeked out into another row of containers. High overhead, one of the fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered out.
The ventilation tube led to the container on his right. It had an ordinary door set into the end, with a steel knob. He looked up and down the aisle. No one in sight except the doctor and the suit headed the opposite way.
He tried the knob. The metal was cold. He turned it. The door opened a crack.
He took a deep breath, brought the gun up, and shoved the door open.
He’d expected to find Arthur Givens or a half-dozen suits staring back at him. But they weren’t there. At the far end of the room, past wheeled metal carts draped with white sheets, sat a pale body strapped into a dentist’s chair.
Mitch closed the door behind him. The click echoed against the metal walls. The body at the far end didn’t move.
It only started to look like Michael when Mitch got closer. His chin rested on his bare chest. His hair, tangled with sweat, hung down over his forehead.
The straps on his wrists and ankles had dug into the skin. Trim muscles stood out on Michael’s bare arms and chest, but he was pale, as if he’d lost a lot of blood. A plastic IV bag hung on a pole next to the chair, filled with a sickly yellow liquid.
Mitch squatted down in front of him, the gun resting on one knee. “Michael? Hey. Can you hear me?”
Michael’s head lifted up, trembling. One bruised eye looked out at Mitch through the hair. “You,” he whispered.
Mitch felt his stomach turn. What they’d done to this guy, he couldn’t imagine. But he knew pain when he saw it.
“Go ahead,” Michael whispered. “Do it.”
Mitch stood up. “Do what?”
Michael’s head tilted up to follow him, still shaking with the effort. “You need an excuse? Just kill me. Get it over with.” He lunged at Mitch, against the straps, teeth bared. “Kill me!”
“Whoa.” Mitch stepped back. “What’d they give you?”
Michael let out two huffing breaths, blowing his straggly hair out, then sagged back into the chair. “Water. Please.”
Mitch looked around. A bottle of spring water sat on one of the metal carts. He twisted
the cap off and put the bottle in Michael’s hand. Then he undid the straps on his wrists.
Michael pulled the IV tube out of his arm, watching Mitch. Then he drank, gulping, water trickling from the corners of his mouth.
“Easy. Not all at once.” Mitch went to work on the ankle straps. Michael started coughing, and Mitch put a hand on the bottle, pushed it away. “Easy, easy. Don’t overdo it.”
Michael’s whole body shook with coughs. When he could speak, he scowled at Mitch. “Why are you doing this? Why help me?”
“Because it’s the right thing to do.”
Michael pushed his hair out of his eyes and stared at Mitch. “You’re joking.”
“You got a strange sense of humor, you know that?”
“Perhaps. You’re a difficult man to read.” Michael’s eyes narrowed down. “I still haven’t figured out if trying to kill you was a mistake, or not.”
“Don’t know what you’re asking me for. Have to figure that one out on your own.” Mitch straightened up and held out his hand. “Come on. We gotta get out of here.”
Michael grabbed his arm, pulling him closer. His fingers were cold. His eyes searched Mitch’s. “You could have walked away from all of this any time you wanted to. Why are you still here?”
Mitch pulled his arm free. “Listen, jackass. Pull yourself together. There’s a girl out there who needs you. She’s hurt, and she’s scared. We gotta get out of here, find her, and blow the Archangel straight back to hell. Any questions?”
Michael stared into space, his jaw working.
“Look, you don’t have time to feel sorry for yourself,” Mitch said. “Let’s move.”
“It’s here.”
“What’s where? Can you walk?”
“What we need. It’s here.” Michael pushed himself up out of the chair and swayed on his feet. He gripped the arm of the chair to steady himself. “A weapon. To destroy the Archangel.”
“Geneva told me you don’t want to destroy it. You only want to capture it.”
“It’s too late for that.” A look of determination spread over Michael’s face, bringing him back to life. He squared his shoulders. “Come on. I’ll show you.” He turned toward the door and stumbled.
Conspiracy of Angels Page 19
