Shadow Train (35 page)

“Yeah. Like I said, I don't remember,” he said slowly. “But if the Flatliners and the Toppers actually agree on anything, it must be true.”

Johnny snorted. “But it's curious, don't you think? Two known gangs get together in a place where everyone knows they go to fight. You all come in here beat to hell. Somebody gets shot, and you're telling me it's an accident? Come on, Bran. What happened?”

But Bran wasn't thinking about what had happened to him anymore. He was thinking about Emory, his body limp, as Rick continued pounding away at him. He was thinking about Emory's girlfriend screaming as she saw his body behind the Dumpster, broken and bloodied. Emory had been in this hospital. He might even have been in this bed. And Bran had lacked the courage to tell the truth about what had happened to him.

Bran remembered all the times he'd seen Josh and Emory hanging out together at school, sitting together in the lunch room, walking home together. They were best friends. It was understandable that Josh wanted revenge.

“You know, even without your testimony, whoever that gun belongs to could get charged with attempted murder. That's how it works,” Johnny said. “Try to remember.”

Bran looked Johnny in the eye. “Like the guys said—it was an accident.”

Johnny's eyes narrowed. “So, you don't think that Flats kid—Josh—should be charged?”

“No,” Bran replied. “He's not the one who should be behind bars.”

“Then who should be?” Johnny asked.

Rick had been Bran's first friend in Middleburg, since the first day of football practice Bran's first year in town. Rick had watched him carry the football twice, and then he'd introduced himself. They had been allies, comrades on the football field, on the basketball court, and more recently in the octagon at Spike Ferrington's gym. But Rick wasn't Rick anymore. And he was more dangerous than ever.

“Is Rick here?” Bran asked.

“Rick Banfield?” Johnny was surprised. “No.”

Bran nodded, his eyes drifting absently back to the TV.

“All right,” Johnny said, flipping his notebook shut. “I can see you're tired. We'll pick this up tomorrow. Feel better, okay?” He headed for the door.

“It was Rick,” Bran said.

“What?” Johnny turned around.

“Rick Banfield killed Emory Van Buren,” Bran said, and it felt like a vault inside his chest clicked open, releasing a host of warming sun rays.

Chapter 23

On Sunday morning, Agent Wade Hackett
woke to the deafening chirping of his cell phone. His first thought was that there could be nothing worse than the grating, high-pitched sound of that ring. He was wrong.

Ten minutes later, his teeth unbrushed, hair uncombed and tie askew, he stood at the door to the mobile lab unit where the three ring shards his men had collected so far were being kept and analyzed. It wasn't going to be easy to get inside, he saw. There were puddles of blood on the metal steps that led up to the door, and the lifeless body of Agent Whitehead was slumped across them. A gaping red slash had opened his throat from ear to ear.

“Cover him up,” Hackett said. “Get him out of here.”

“Detective Z said he's waiting for his crime scene team to—” Agent Brown started, but Hackett cut him off.

“I don't give a piss what Z said. I told you get him out of here!” Hackett barked, then stepped over his fallen comrade and into the mobile trailer. It was just as he thought. Two of his science officers lay butchered on the floor, and the door of the lead-lined safe where they'd been keeping the shards was standing open. He didn't bother to go over and look inside—he already knew it was empty. The shards were gone. He sat down heavily at the desk near the door, feeling like someone had stomped good and hard on his gut.

His cell phone chirped again and when he saw who it was, he silenced it. It was his commander in Washington D.C. The guys who had found the body had notified him as soon as they discovered the casualties, no doubt. It was protocol. Hackett would get reamed out for not answering the call, but he didn't care. He was getting a reaming either way, and he needed time—a few minutes anyway—to sort through what had gone wrong.

It was pretty clear. He didn't need Z's crappy CSI unit to tell him that the Order of the Snake had waltzed in here, slaughtered his men, and taken the ring shards. The question was, how? His own men were highly trained and the lab was wired up with all sorts of sensors, cameras, and alarms. The whole unit would have been alerted the minute someone approached the trailer. Furthermore, how had the Snakes known that the shards were in the trailer? Hackett wasn't an idiot. He'd set up a decoy lab across town and manned it with heavily armed, well-trained agents to create a perfect trap.
Well, obviously, not perfect,
he thought. Somehow, the Snakes knew the shards were there and they'd snagged them. They could be halfway back to China by now.

With a heavy sigh, he leaned his elbow on the table and heard a sound like the crinkling of paper. It was the science team's report.
Fresh off the printer when they were killed,
he thought and scanned it.

Hackett was no scientist. High school chemistry, for him, had been an exercise in boredom, and the rows of numbers and chemical symbols he was looking at now might as well have been Egyptian hieroglyphs. Fortunately, there was a section at the bottom that the team had written in layman's terms, a concession to Hackett's superiors in Washington, who didn't understand chemistry either.

The specimen's chemical composition does not match that of any known element, compound, or alloy, and its properties seem to be completely unique. There appears to be enough potential energy stored within a ten-gram sample to power the city of New York for three thousand years, and yet the compound is completely stable, emitting no more radiation than a common piece of glass. The potential for peaceful energy use, as well as weaponization of the material, is nearly infinite. The team recommends that all available resources be used to secure the remaining material and keep it out of the hands of the Chinese government. Priority: Alpha.

Hackett dropped the report back to the table, unable to suppress a groan. The morning had started out bad when he learned that three of his agents were killed and his security was breached. He hadn't thought it could get any worse, but his blunders might cost the United States its role as leader of the free world. A few minutes ago, he was concerned about his career. Now, it looked like the balance of world power was at stake.

“Connors!” he barked, and a husky agent with ruddy cheeks vaulted into the trailer.

“Yes, sir,” Connors said, whipping the aviator sunglasses off his face and standing at attention.

Hackett fought the urge to roll his eyes. He hated when they sent him guys fresh out of the military. They were always stiff and by-the-book. But there was no way he was going to tell the kid to relax—not now, when Feng Xu was on the move. Hackett's phone chirped again.

“Scan this report and email it to headquarters now. Use the encrypted line,” he said, handing the pages to Connors, and then he answered his phone.

“Hackett here.” The tongue-lashing began immediately and lasted so long Hackett felt obliged to butt in. There would be plenty of time for him to get dressed down later, but now there were more important matters at stake. “Sir,” he broke into his superior's tirade. “I'm sending the science team's report to you now . . . Yes, they finished it . . . You'll see when you get it, sir, but I think you'll want to send your strike teams in now. I recommend six units, at least. . . . Yes, six. The urgency of this situation can't be overstated. If Feng Xu gets the materials back to China, it might tip the balance of global power forever. It might be the end of us, sir. . . . No, I'm not out of my freakin' mind, sir. You'll see when you get the report. Just read it—and send me the units
now
. We need to form a perimeter around the city immediately, order a media blackout, and bring in every damned asset we've got. If we don't find a way to stop it, Middleburg, Kansas, is going to be a war zone.”

* * *

Dawn was breaking as Orias parked his car on Golden Avenue and headed north, toward the wooded path that would lead him to the Middleburg Tunnels. If Aimee had gone to bring back her mother, Orias was sure she would try to use the Wheel. And that, he now realized, would be very, very dangerous. The Wheel was a portal. And a portal could lead to all sorts of places—good places and bad ones, too. It was also the place in Middleburg where the power of the Irin was the greatest. His only hope was to find Aimee before Azaziel did.

Orias picked up his pace. He was floating weightlessly a couple of inches above the sidewalk when a little way ahead he noticed a strange glow. Streams of reddish light were shining up from around the edges of a manhole cover in the center of the street. Orias froze, staring at the heavy circle of steel as it slowly rose into the air like the roof of an invisible elevator.

His feet hit the sidewalk as a shape emerged from the round opening. Was it possible that the mighty Azaziel would choose such an undignified route to the surface? Although he thought not, anything was possible. But the creature that emerged from Middleburg's sewer system was not the Lord Prefect of the fallen Irin.

“Uphir?” Orias said.

“None other.” This time the demon doctor had not bothered with a human disguise. “I have a message for you—from Azaziel.”

“I don't answer to Azaziel.”

Uphir reached out an arm that was little more than wispy smoke and opened a skeletal hand to reveal a scroll. “You might today,” he hissed. “I'm in a lot of trouble because of you, Orias. Your friend Aimee is, too. He has her.”

Orias snatched the scroll from the demon, broke the seal, and unrolled it to see that a vivid image had been burned into the leather. Azaziel, his hand clamped around Aimee's neck, was holding her over a smoldering chasm. Beneath the picture, the fallen Irin had inscribed,

Orias,

Your presence is requested. Come at once or Aimee will bear the brunt of my displeasure.

—Azaziel

* * *

Aimee forced herself to stay calm, which was a lot easier said than done since she was locked in a cage right next to the doors that led to the Pit, and Azaziel's soldiers or disciples or whatever they were continued to stare at her from the shadows.

The throne room, lit only by the eerie glow, was constructed of dark stone with huge marble columns set around its outer circumference. She'd caught glimpses of the creatures hiding between them, and she could sense their malice. Their lord prefect lounged on his throne, sipping from a crystal goblet filled with wine. Azaziel's eyes were closed as if he was listening to the whispers coming from the figures in the shadows. The murmurings were vaguely ominous, going on and on like some kind of chant, like they were reciting some kind of perverted rosary, and the sound made Aimee shiver. She watched Azaziel for a few moments, until his eyes snapped open. He looked at her and grinned.

“They're coming,” he said.

A set of jeweled doors at the far end of the room slid open and Orias stepped out, as if he were getting off some kind of elevator. With him was the strangest being Aimee had ever seen. It had the shape of a man but no substance. It was like a person made of smoke. It ran around Orias and bowed low before Azaziel.

“My Lord Prefect,” it said. “As you have decreed, I deliver the prisoner into your mighty hands. It is my proud privilege to be of some small service to your bountiful majesty—”

“Shut up, Uphir,” Azaziel ordered. “Unless you want to go back into the Pit.”

Without another word, Uphir scurried into the shadows.

“Orias,” said Azaziel. “I must say I'm surprised to see you. I never thought you'd have the courage to stand before me just for the sake of one pitiful human girl.”

Ignoring him, Orias walked toward the cage where Aimee was waiting.

“Stay where you are, Nephilim!” Azaziel thundered. “Or she will suffer.” He waved one grotesquely taloned hand and said, “Release her.”

Instantly, the cage door sprang open.

“Orias!” Aimee exclaimed and ran into his arms.

“Aimee, I'm so sorry,” he whispered.

“Oh, do spare me your tiresome human emotions, half-breed,” said Azaziel. “And there will be no more physical contact, Orias, or you will watch as my Sacred Guard beheads her.”

Dark faces with enormous sorrowful eyes peered out from between the ring of marble columns as Orias moved away from Aimee.

“What do you want, Azaziel?” he asked, turning to the terrible fallen Irin. “You never bother with us lowly Nephilim.”

“Unless you interfere with my plans,” was the reply. “What I want is to put you on trial.”

“Fine,” Orias said. “You got me here so you have no more use for Aimee. Let her go.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Aimee said. “I can speak for you, like a character witness.”

Azaziel rose and strode gracefully to her. Towering over her, he looked at her with so much evil she was tempted to try to slip—but she knew better than to run from a bully. If high school had taught her anything, it was that. She stared up at him defiantly. Azaziel smiled.

“Aimee, no,” said Orias. “You need to go.”

“She stays,” said Azaziel. “I would be greatly intrigued to hear her testimony.”

“Why?” Orias challenged. “We both know how this is going to turn out.”

“Have you any other witness to speak for you?” asked the Lord Prefect of the fallen. Orias said nothing. “Very well, then. Let us begin.” He took his throne again and continued, “This royal court is now in session. Orias Morrow, you are hereby charged with imprisoning an Irin and trying to enlist the aid of a demon to kill him. How do you answer these charges?”

Meeting his gaze Orias replied, “We both know what my true crime is—the unforgivable crime of existing.”

Smug and amused, Azaziel responded, “Be that as it may, we shall proceed.” Aimee could hear a stirring in the darkness between the columns as he continued, “The Nephilim before us stands accused of trying to end the life of my finest soldier, Oberon, to whom I assigned a most important mission.”

“Wait,” Aimee interrupted. “Aren't you guys immortal or something? How can Orias kill someone who's immortal?”

Azaziel looked at Aimee, as if mildly amused. “Oh, angels can die if you know how to kill them. But unlike His precious humans, God did not see fit to give us souls. So if we are destroyed, that's it for us.”

“What about Nephilim?” Aimee asked. “Orias's human half has a soul.”

“It hardly matters—he is a mongrel, as repulsive to those above as he is to those below,” Azaziel told her. “Now approach the throne. What say you in his defense? Do you have any proof that he is not guilty of these charges?”

“I don't know anything about that,” Aimee said. “All I know of Orias is what he has shown me, which has been nothing but good. Sure, he's probably made some mistakes, but if he'd been treated better all these years maybe he would have made better choices. We all make mistakes—that's what humans do.”

“Answer the question, please. Can you prove that he did not conspire to kill his father, Oberon?”