“Hey.”
The Angel’s eyes focused and she realized that Ray was standing before her.
“You okay?”
His once immaculate suit was torn into rags. His body didn’t look much better. His face was battered and bloody. A vivid purple welt like the scar from a noose colored an arc around his neck. A flap of skin and meat hung down from his upper chest, exposing the muscle underneath, as well as a glimmer of bone. He was still bleeding from half a dozen body wounds and he held his side as if he had broken or at least rearranged ribs.
But he’d proved himself more competent than she thought he’d be. He’d handled himself quite well and his fighting technique had been, well, a revelation. He was faster than she was, if not stronger. And, she had to admit, much more deadly with a killer instinct that at times was frightening.
“Yes,” she finally lied. The next sentence came out unbidden from her mouth. “Tell me something.”
Ray brushed at his cheek, smearing a trail of clotting blood. “Sure.” He waited a moment, frowned, and then asked into the silence between them, “What is it?”
The Angel forced herself to focus. “Do you ever get used to the blood?”
“The blood?” She could see that he was puzzled. It was almost as if she’d asked him if he ever got used to the air he breathed, or the food he ate. “If blood bothers you, you’re in the wrong line of work, ba— uh, Angel. The people we deal with bleed all the time.” He grinned, and it was not comforting. “Better them than us, but we have to bleed too, sometimes. It’s the nature of the job.”
She nodded. She believed his words, but she wasn’t sure that she understood them. She’d have to pray over it and seek the Lord’s guidance.
“What do we do now?”
“Now?” The word came out of Ray as a long sigh. “Now we wait for the paper pushers to show up and start asking stupid questions.”
The Angel looked around the auditorium. It was quieter now than during the attack, but almost as chaotic, though the chaos had a controlled feel to it, as the men and women in EMT uniforms worked to alleviate the pain and suffering that surrounded them.
It wasn’t long before a florid-faced man with a dark rumpled suit and short rumpled haircut that screamed “COP” approached, looking as if he’d rather have a gun than a notebook in his hand as he faced them
“Now just who the Hell are you two?” he asked unpleasantly. “Witnesses said you two played a major part in the fight—”
“Somebody had to protect the citizens while you were out chugging donuts,” Ray said.
“Just a minute—”
“I’m going to reach into the back pocket of my pants,” Ray said, “and get my I.D.” He frowned. It was not a pleasant sight. “If the pocket’s still attached to my ass.” Fortunately it was, and the I.D. wallet was still in it. He took it out and showed it to the cop. “I’m Agent Billy Ray. Secret Service. This is Agent Angel.”
“You—” the Angel started to say, but he froze her with a look.
That doesn’t, she thought as the cop frowned at Ray’s I.D., happen very often.
The cop looked up. It was hard to say if the realization that the Feds were on the case made him more or less truculent. “Ray. Yeah, I guess I heard of you. Well,” he said gruffly, “you’ll have to come down to the station and make a statement.”
“Certainly, officer.” The Angel was amazed at the sudden courtesy in Ray’s manner and tone. “Do you mind if I stop bleeding first? Maybe change out of my rags? Get my broken ribs bound up?”
The cop’s florid features grew redder. “No,” he said shortly.
“Excellent, officer.” Ray took the Angel by her upper right arm and moved off. She went with him without a murmur. “We’ll stop by as soon as possible. Perhaps tomorrow morning. Whatever the doctor says.”
The cop opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. He waved them on.
“You didn’t have to lie,” the Angel said when they were out of his hearing.
“Lie?” Ray asked innocently.
“I’m not a Secret Service agent.”
“Did I say you were a Secret Service agent?” Ray shook his head. “No.”
“You said—”
“I said ‘Agent Angel,’” Ray quoted himself. “And didn’t you tell me yourself that you’re an agent of the Lord?”
“I,” the Angel paused. “Maybe. I—I probably said ‘instrument of the Lord.’”
Ray shrugged. “Agent, instrument. Let’s not get technical. Now, be quiet for a moment.”
They’d reached the exit, which was blocked by uniformed cops. The Angel didn’t even listen to Ray’s explanation as he showed them his identification. Something about clearance levels and need-to-know and having to report back to the chief immediately as to what had happened. She was suddenly so tired that she really didn’t know how he’d managed it. The sleepless hours, the exhausting travel, the mentally and physically draining combat had finally caught up with her. Suddenly they were outside the auditorium.
People stared at them as they went through the lobby, but the Angel for once hardly noticed, let alone cared. She could hear the buzz of conversation. They were already whispering about the “Mayhem at the Mirage,” as she and Ray went to the elevator bank. Unsurprisingly, no one else got on the elevator with them as they went up to the connecting rooms that Ray had rented earlier.
Ray looked at her judiciously in the hallway outside their rooms as he handed her the electronic key for her half of the suite. She took it from him, and managed to insert it into the lock on the third try. She opened the door and stumbled into the room.
“You’d better get some rest—” Ray began, and she closed the door in his face.
She thought about taking a shower, but barely managed to peel off her torn and bloodied fighting suit and slip off her sweat-soaked underwear before collapsing onto the cool, welcoming bed.
If she dreamed, she didn’t remember.
♥ ♦ ♣ ♠
New York City: Jokertown
Fortunato ditched Digger Downs at Tomlin International as soon as they cleared customs and reached ground transport outside the terminal. He’d had enough of the man’s company on the long flights across the Pacific and over the country. He needed some time to himself, some time to think about his return to a land he’d left behind sixteen years ago along with a life he had no desire to renew.
Before getting into the cab waiting in line at ground transport, he took a few hundred in expense money from Downs, as well as a cell phone so they could keep in touch. Fortunato marveled at the slim piece of equipment before he slipped it into the pocket of his robe. Portable phones had gotten a lot smaller since the last time he’d used one, but Fortunato was sure that they wouldn’t be the only marvel to meet his eyes.
The cabby glanced up into the mirror as he pulled away from the curb. He had a turban and a long, thick beard, and he wore white robes. He spoke barely understandable English.
“Where to, Mack?”
It was, Fortunato reflected, good to back in the good old U.S.A. And that was the question. Where to?
“Manhattan,” Fortunato said. Who in New York, he pondered, did he still have ties to?
Peregrine. He had no idea where she lived or what her phone number was. Besides, she was still in Vegas with the boy. His mother was dead. Miranda...Veronica... the last he’d heard from her had been a telegram telling him of Ichiko’s death. He’d ignored it. He could hardly drop in on her now, even if he knew where to find her. There were others, but time had not been good to his friends, allies, and or even his foes.