Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm (16 page)

Nine days later, Monday, March 2, 1981, 3:01
A.M.
CET

Calais, Province of France, GG

I cram the small yet surprisingly heavy device between two large commercial-size refrigerators. One of these fridges should get ejected right through this butcher shop's front window and fly clear across the street. The butcher is one the league's most active thugs and has nearly caught Betti a couple of times.

Brando comms, “Got that bomb set?”

“Yeah,” I comm. “Let's scram.”

We make tracks to the cab and slide into the backseat. Our driver takes us to our next target. The quiet streetlit buildings of downtown Calais glide by our windows.

The Purity League has enthusiastic assets all over Europe. Until recently, their amateurishness has relegated them to being a hazardous nuisance, but now they're getting assignments directly from the Gestapo, which could make them much more dangerous. Brando had barely filed his report about the league's surveillance and my encounter with Johannes Kruppe when we received new orders. We're slated to snoop on Kruppe's meeting in Thiepval next week, but until then the ExOps brass has cooked up a theater-wide Rock ‘n Shock Job Number to see if we can terrorize these anti-Semitic pinheads back to their rat holes.

We worked all day yesterday with local Circle of Zion people to set up our targets and timing. Marie found us an antislavery activist and cab driver named Josef to chauffeur us around town. Everything has gone smoothly so far. Tonight is the final stage where we bomb three Purity League businesses here in Calais.

We stop in front of a tailor's storefront a few blocks from the butcher shop. The tailor is the bozo who's been watching Marie's house. He doesn't have much heavy equipment, but he does have a lot of flammable fabric. Instead of the high-explosive device we used at the butcher's shop, we plant a lava-spewing incendiary bomb in his storeroom. We're in and out in three minutes flat.

Back in the taxi I say to Brando, “I think fire will be very ‘in' this season.”

“Oh, most definitely,” he answers. “Nothing says ‘hip' and ‘trendy' like being wreathed in flames.”

Josef peeks in his rearview mirror to make sure we're back in the car, then drives us to our third and final target, a large department store in downtown Calais. It's a popular store that also happens to be a huge Purity League distribution center. Uniforms, equipment, and even weapons are trucked through this place under the guidance of the store's ex-Nazi owner.

One of Marie's associates, an electrician named Schall, has already been here tonight to disable the alarms. In fact, he's the person who installed them. Marie said she had to talk Schall out of removing the equipment entirely. He wanted to save it from being destroyed along with the building. Marie had to illuminate for him how unbelievably suspicious that would look.

“Schall is a good man,” Marie told us, “but not the ripest tomato in the garden.”

Josef the cabbie drops us off and drives away. We'll meet him at a prearranged extraction point a couple of blocks away. When Josef heard our plan for this building, he declared he didn't want to be anywhere near it while we're inside.

My partner and I sneak around behind the store. It'll take three bombs to ice this place, one for each floor. We've already decided to go from top to bottom. My entry strategy for this alarm-free building is wonderfully simple: I kick the back door until it flies off its hinges. Nobody lives in this commercial neighborhood, but even if someone hears us, we'll be gone before the cops get here. Sometimes stealth is about being quiet, and sometimes it's about being fast. Tonight's stealth is the fast kind.

As we run up the back stairs, I can't help but notice how much better I feel than when we crossed the Channel two weeks ago. My combat wounds have healed, and all the time I spent in bed has restored my nervous system's ability to use Enhances. That downtime also allowed Patrick and I to grow closer.

We haven't had sex yet, but for some reason I don't feel the same physical urgency I had with Trick. Maybe because Trick was my first and I couldn't wait to find out what it was like. Now I know, and yeah—it's fun—but taking things slow with Patrick feels like a good idea. Besides, once I'm ready to jump his bones, all I need to do is put that skimpy black dress back on. Patrick couldn't wait to get me alone after we left the party Saturday night.

We arrive at the third floor and hotfoot it to the elevators. They're centrally located and run parallel to the ventilation, plumbing, and electrical systems. Wiping out this infrastructural spinal cord will effectively disable the building. Even if the owner can salvage the structure, he'll still need months to repair everything. And he'll need even longer to explain why there are so many weapons mixed in with the beer mugs and sausage stuffers.

I stand in front of the elevator and heave the doors open. I hold them while Brando adheres the first bomb inside the elevator shaft. While he works, a quiet scraping sound ripples up the shaft. I listen closely, but I don't hear it again. Maybe sticking the bomb in place made a funny echo.

When Brando finishes, I let go of the doors and we hotfoot it downstairs to the main office, where the data servers live. I try the door. It's locked. I use my boot as a key, and presto! The door opens.

I keep watch outside while my partner enters the office. He places one of our explosive devices next to the data server. While he works, another sound skips up the stairs: a sharp click. After a moment, I realize it was someone trying to be very quiet while they cocked their assault rifle.

“Darwin, I hear company downstairs.”

“Crap.” He hurriedly finishes arming the bomb. “How many?”

I turn on my infrared vision and peer through the floor to see what's downstairs.

Oh, my God, where did all those fuckers come from?

I switch to the terse field-speak I learned at Camp. “Darwin, I have eyes on thirty competitors, all armed.”

My partner's response is terse, although not exactly field-speak: “Crap! Are they SZ troops?”

“Negative. Their load-outs are all different. I think they're Purity League militia.”

Our teachers back at Camp A-Go-Go drilled many things into us. One of them was the importance of not freezing in a situation like this. “Act!” They would bellow. “Even a bad decision is better than no decision!”

I comm to Brando, “Roof?”

“Yes.”

We charge upstairs to the roof exit. I bash the door open, and we emerge on top of the building. Stars shine brightly on us, and the only sound besides our heavy breathing is the A16 highway's dull hum a half mile away.

The rules of engagement for this Job Number don't exactly cover this situation. These nitwits are regular civilians. Granted, they've got guns, but the German press and public might view them and their untimely deaths differently than if they were Gestapo or SZ. This is a challenge. It'll take much longer to
not
kill these jokers than it would to straight-up grease the lot of them.

Brando and I take cover behind a big air conditioner unit. I boot up Li'l Bertha and aim her at the doorway. Her target indicator displays a string of red figures zigzagging up the stairs from below. I set her for .22-caliber standard bullets, take a deep breath, and dose some Kalmers to steady my hands.

The first blockhead creeps through the doorway and swivels from side to side, searching for us. My enhanced infrared vision picks his weapon out in bright blue against the shimmering red of his body. I wait until he turns so I see his automatic pistol in profile, then I fire a round through the gun's bolt chamber. My bullet's impact disables the weapon and blows it out of his fingers. He yelps and presses his gun hand against his chest.

A second militiaman runs from the stairway and aims directly at me. This presents me with such a small target I can't count on disabling his weapon. Li'l Bertha switches to .45-caliber standard slugs, and I put the brown shirt on his ass with a bullet through his right shoulder.

Meanwhile, Brando crawls to the roof's rear edge and pulls his rappelling line out of his X-bag. He uncoils the line and secures it through a piece of stone railing in the building's facade.

He comms, “Scarlet, the line is ready when you are.”

“You go first. I'll fend them off while you make your descent.”

My partner climbs over the stone railing and disappears from view. I'm about to follow him when three more brown-shirted goons burst onto the roof and fan out. The competitor [6]in the middle peppers my position with bullets to keep me suppressed while the other two move to my flanks.

I've still got the grenades I swiped from the Tower of London. I take out two of them, quickly arm them both, and simultaneously underarm them thirty feet to each side of my position. The militiamen don't notice them until it's too late. The grenades explode, and the two flankers clutch their faces and fall down, screaming into their hands. The remaining jamoke takes cover, and I sense this is my opportunity to get out of here. I turn to the rappelling line—

—but it's gone! The loop of rope around the railing now ends at a truncated stub.

“Darwin, our rope's been cut!”

“No kidding, I was still ten feet off the ground,” he comms. “Must have been a shot from one of the militiamen.”

I crouch back behind my big air conditioner and comm, “How the hell do I get out of here?”

“Can you jump down?”

“It's forty feet, Darwin. That'd wreck my knees for sure.”

Another group of Purity League men storm onto the roof with me. My infrared vision shows five competitors out here, plus more of them waiting on the stairs.

“Darwin,” I comm, “how about if I bull rush right through these shitheads and exit from the ground floor?”

“Go for it,” Brando comms.

I cram Li'l Bertha back in her holster, bang a big-ass dose of Madrenaline into my bloodstream, then arm and toss my last grenade toward my five opponents. They scramble away from the bomb. One of them shouts,
“Granate!”
When it explodes, I burst out of cover and hightail it off the roof at top speed.

I fly into the stairway and cannon into the row of men waiting to come out. My impact knocks them all down like a line of dominoes. My feet stomp a few heads into the steps as I literally run over my competition in my haste to get out of this goddamn department store. I scramble downstairs, third floor–second floor–first floor, and barge through the front doors out to the street.

Seven vehicles have appeared since we went inside. These cars and trucks must belong to the militiamen. My partner has taken cover behind a car parked across the road.

Brando says, “I think the Purity League had the front of the building staked out but didn't think to cover the rear. They heard you kicking the back door down and came inside to get us.”

“What a bunch of fuckchops,” I say. All they had to do was wait for us to come out, but these beer-swilling Wehrmacht wannabes couldn't control themselves. They didn't even leave anyone out here to cover the exterior.

We watch the store. Cop sirens wail in the distance as the militiamen straggle out the front doors. Most of them wear brown military-style uniforms. We count twenty-three of them. They mill around, hollering at each other. Nobody seems to be in charge. Maybe I disabled their leader.

Brando comms, “Can you see if there's anyone left inside?”

“No, it's too far for my vision Mods.”

The sirens get louder. “Well, forget it.” Brando says. “We've gotta get out of here.” He holds his remote-control detonator device, takes one more look across the street, and presses the button.

The entire neighborhood lights up like it's high noon, except high noon is happening inside the big department store as it flies apart at the seams. The ground shakes my feet, and the car we're hiding behind slides sideways at us. My partner and I squeeze ourselves into the smallest possible shapes as debris hails down around us. The blast topples the Purity Losers like a rack of bowling pins. Moments later they and their vehicles are pelted by a rattling rain of building chunks, broken glass, and shredded merchandise.

The building is listing to one side like it's been through an earthquake. I brush some small pieces of stone out of my hair and say, “Holy Toledo! I can't believe we were gonna plant a third bomb in there.”

Brando grins sheepishly and says, “I planted it at the base of the wall where I landed.” He shrugs. “I figured, ‘What the heck?'”

We make a run for it as the militiamen struggle to get back on their feet. Brando goes first, and as we get moving, he looks back. His eyes open wide, and he draws in breath to call out. I spin around, draw Li'l Bertha, and aim all in one motion. One of the Purity Losers is on his feet. The clown's got the drop on me and has already aimed his weapon. Before Li'l Bertha can lock on to him, a bright rose blossoms on the gunman's forehead and he tips over backward. A rifle shot cracks through the air.

“Shit, Scarlet. Don't kill them!”

“I didn't! That—”

Another militiaman swings his gun in my direction. He takes a shot in the head too. The sucker spins around and smacks the blacktop with his face.

Brando shouts, “Scarlet!”

“It's not me! There's another shooter.”

I backpedal away from the burning store. Every dunderhead who aims at us is the instant winner of a long-distance lobotomy. I count five. Then the rest of the Purity Losers wise up and play possum. The sniper fire stops. I try to see where it came from, but there's too much dust and smoke in the air. The delay between the appearance of the bullets and the arrival of the bangs tells me the sniper is about a half mile away.

The sirens are very loud now. We make a break toward our pickup point with Josef.