Hell Raisers

by Dick Wybrow

At the end of this book get a sneak peek at Book 4

The InBetween

Novels by DICK WYBROW

THE HELL INC SERIES

Hell inc.

Hell to Pay

Hell Raisers

The InBetween

The Night Vanishing

Past Life

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemble to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021, Dick Wybrow

www.dickwybrow.com

Cover by Warren Design

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. All and any parts of this book that are reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system should clearly state details of the author/ publisher.

Hell Raisers

(Hell inc Series Book 3)

CHAPTER ONE

The most magical creation in the world is the clipboard.

At the most basic level, a clipboard is a portable desk you can hold. Take notes, fill out forms, sign your soul over to the devil. That sort of stuff.

A clipboard will also hold your pen. Sometimes, they come with a string attached to said pen, but, really, that’s trying too hard.

When it rains, a clipboard can serve as a makeshift umbrella (pro tip: watch out for swinging pens on strings).

And in a pinch, you can wield a sturdy clipboard as a weapon. Sally Scull, the nineteenth-century gunslinger I was driving for, told me some agents of Hell inc.—“the new-aged bastards!”—had even gone so far as to sharpen one side of their clipboards to a razor’s edge. Swinging these around, they could take out an enemy agent working for Hell, the original overlords of the Downstairs, who they were trying to unseat.

Note: This sort of use is what the pharmaceutical world calls “off brand.”

But that’s not what’s magical about clipboards.

Here’s what is: They are the hall pass to the world.

Holding one of these simple devices grants you unquestioned access to areas you have no business going. Red-velvet ropes are no match for the mighty clipboard.

Even without the sharpened edge.

And since I am an ex-DJ with zero marketable skills and a current motorcycle chauffeur for one of Hell’s top agents, most places are places I have no business going.

For example: I certainly had no business standing at the top of a granite behemoth called El Capitan in California’s Yosemite National Park surrounded by hundreds of people—at an event watched by hundreds of thousands around the world—waiting for a social media darling named Jaxon Dragon to attempt a “wingsuit” jump from its three-thousand-foot peak.

However, I was carrying a clipboard.

I was also sporting an Action Jaxon ball cap I’d picked up from one of the vendors at the base of the mini-mountain. For an event that would last less than a minute, there were at least seventeen different stalls selling all sorts of Jaxon merch. A simple transaction to purchase a pair of thundersticks emblazoned with his face would take longer than his flight through the valley below.

Hats, T-shirts, mugs, do-rags, and of course his line of “men’s empowerment products.” Many “dudes” wouldn’t buy from a line of beauty products, so empowerment it was!

Thus, moisturizers were labelled “fluid infusers.”

Facial cleansers were sold as “mug wipes.”

And there were blackhead removers, beard trimmers, moustache trimmers, nose-hair trimmers, and even old-school cover-up for those pimply days, which he’d sold as Guy Grout™ for chrissake, all under the alpha-male arm of A-Jax.

One could slap many labels on Jaxon Dragon himself—and after you pull off the label, here, try this A-Jax cleansing skin tightener!—like “entrepreneur” or “daredevil.” But the most appropriate might simply be social “media douchebag.”

That, of course, meant that “Action” Jaxson Dragon was secretly an underling, proxy, or agent of Hell inc.

So Sally Scull, my employer, was going to kill him.

Sally worked for the other side.

No, not the other other side. This situation wasn’t Old Testament–style good versus evil. This was basically New New Testament-style evil versus evil.

Sometime in the twentieth century, after scores of lawyers, corporate accountants, brand ambassadors, and so on died, they naturally went to the afterworld place where locals dressed in red, had summer homes near lakes of fire, and carried pointy sticks, searching for body cavities to stick them in.

However, this new blood pulled off something no other had since the dawn of time. They’d formed a splinter group—what you might think of as a corporate version of Hell—which was dubbed “Hell inc.”

Derivative, sure, but apparently not violating any copyrights.

They checked.

They had the lawyers.

Hell inc. was headed by Steve Janus, former CEO of Baby Gap.

After his death in the late 1980s, Janus started trying to unseat The Old Man in Hell so Janus could take the reins himself and, um, reign. Naturally, the Devil ain’t happy about that, so the two sides are locked in a war, battling for power.

But, Sally explained to me, it’s not yet an all-and-out war.

“Janus got all his minions and agents trying to wipe out all our minions and agents,” she told me over some homebrew I’d concocted at our California ranch house when we’d first started working together. “And the Old Man has people like me keeping the peace.”

“By killing them,” I said.

“That’s how you keep peace, Rasputin,” she said and frowned at me. “Don’t you read no books or nothing?”

“Is there an audiobook? I prefer an audiobook. That way I can get other stuff done while I listen. I would read, of course. It’s so much better, but I get so busy—”

“No, no, and no and in that order,” she had said, repeating a favorite phrase of hers. “The job of talented folks like myself is to peace-keep the others side’s agents back to Hell via bullet, blade, or busted head. And now you being my chauffeur, it’s your job too.”

I’d done a lot of questionable things in my life but never outright killing people. Or, well, even in-right killing people, if that was a thing. No killing, basically.

But her targets were minions of the forces of pure evil, so technically, that was a bit of a get-out clause. In my rationalization, I chose to ignore that Sally et al. were also forces of pure evil, just on another team.

We’d taken the motorcycle, a very special machine close to my heart I’d named Bucephalus, from her ranch house at the foot the Santa Lucia Mountains near Big Sur all the way to Yosemite. A four-hour-plus drive that took us ten minutes.

Sally, bless her heart, wanted to whip out her shooters and tear up ol’ Action Jaxon with lead slugs. A state that, by the way, could not be improved by any amount of fluid-enhancing cream.

I’d come up with a different idea and one that was far less shooty bang-bang.

And one that ensured us less chance of getting ID’d. Jaxon would meet a very public end to his contract, so if it didn’t point back at Sally—and by association me—that would be best.

I felt a bump behind me that was so rough I nearly dropped my clipboard.

Sighing, I said through clenched teeth, “You were supposed to be waiting down below, Sal.” I didn’t even have to turn around to know it was her. I was downwind.

“Had to keep moving,” she growled. “People started starin’ at me. Makes my trigger finger itchy.”

I’d been eyeballing Jaxon, who was surrounded by a throng of TV reporters waiting for him to finish his final online broadcast to his followers—thirty-three million of them—so they could get their story for the handful of people still watching television.

Currently, he was waxing on about how he wasn’t concerned about rocketing through the air faster than 150 miles an hour because any wind damage to his skin would be held off by something called A-Jax Skin Shield™.

When I turned to Sally and saw what she was wearing, I had to bite my tongue, willing the corners of my mouth to stay down, stay down. She’d once shot a man just for snoring. Laugh at her? The assault would likely involve a reload. Probably two.

“That… is an amazing look,” I said, nodding to keep my head busy. “Look at you flyin’ the Action Jaxon flag too!”

“Makes me look hippy.”

When I say “nineteenth-century cowboy,” the image it conjures up is exactly what you would see when gazing upon Sally Scull. Dusty hat, leather chaps, denim vest, denim pants, and cowboy boots spotted with shit, blood, and, very likely, bits of brain matter.

Over all of that, Sally had stretched an A-Jax T-shirt featuring the man’s face and the twinkling smile on it. I’d have paid a dollar to see what size the shirt was, but my best guess was the Xs before the letter L would look like the bottom of a love note from a smitten fourteen-year-old high schooler.

She grunted, her usual form of conversation, nodding at Jaxon, who was now waving away the reporters and walking to a spot at the cliff’s edge. Here stood three lighting rigs in a tight frame, all pointing toward a red square of carpet.

Down below floated a long, long ribbon of rainbow balloons, like airport running lights suspended in mid-air, awaiting the landing of Pride One.

At the very end was his target: a giant sheet-metal slab that had been cut into three letters. Tall, red bedazzled script sparkling in the sun: the word Jax.

Sally and I followed the throng of supporters, paid-VIP guests, and principal sponsor reps rushing toward his jumping-off point. I kept my clipboard high, scribbling with a stubby pencil to appear that I was taking notes. Or measurements. Or planning the after-event buffet.

Even before reaching his carpet square, incongruous against the gray slate rock, Jaxon was getting his millions of followers ready for the big moment.

“…but don’t worry, that’s all part of it,” he said, grinning at the camera, which was attached with a goose-neck telescoping arm coming out of his helmet, pointed at his priceless face. “After the initial drop, I’ll have enough speed, and I’ll arc the wingsuit at exactly thirty-one degrees, which I can track”—he tapped an OLED monitor fitted to the inside of his wristband—“here. If you’re a premium subscriber, you’ll see all those measurements—including my heart rate and BP—up on your screen.”

“You shoulda let me shoot him,” Sally mumbled. Fortunately, with the wind stronger near the edge, only a few of the nearby onlookers glanced in our direction, likely unsure if they’d heard what they thought they’d heard.

I growled back to her, “Will you be quiet! Please!”

“Raz, just so we’re clear,” Sally said, chuckling, “you’re only still breathing because you said ‘please.”’

The man in the jet-black wingsuit was now on his spot, doing a series of stretches that seemed wholly unnecessary.

“And I’ve got cam-shots from both hands, a chest view to see the ground hurtling by at eye-watering speeds. Another on my head to see our target, and a few of you get the rear shot—that’ll show you what we left behind, and, for the ladies only, you also see a shot of my… behind!” He grinned and laughed. “That’s just for the premies, though. You’ve got about sixty seconds left if you want to get in on that.”

Yeah, he called his premium subscribers premies. Sure, it could have been ironic, but “Action” Jaxon Dragon didn’t seem like the ironic type.

“All six cams, just ten bucks,” he said, giving a thumbs-up. Then he theatrically held his finger to his ear and shouted: “Forty-five seconds!”

The crowd around us erupted in cheers. Everyone got excited, jostling against one another, trying to get a better view. Some people in the throng were actually watching on their phones, the display cut into six different squares.

The only one without an absurd ear-to-ear grin was my cohort in Hell-based crime, Sally Scull.

“Ain’t you gonna do something?” she said in a hoarse whisper. “He’s about to go!”

I tapped my pencil on the clipboard, trying to get her attention. She started to speak again, so I tapped harder. Finally, she looked down.

“Camera?” she “whispered” so loudly it was like how another person might sound from three rooms over to warn you of a house fire.

I clenched the pencil tightly and tapped it again.

She looked up, squinting. Slowly, I saw her counting as she rubbed what was left of a chili dog on her shirt. A red smear now spread across the man’s twinkling smile.

I watched her mouth make the soundless words—One, two, three…

Finally, she shrugged and said, “Six cameras? What?”

Again, I tapped the word camera on the clipboard and shook my head slowly. When she didn’t get it, I tapped the back of her head casually, as if I was dusting off a bit of lint.

“Fifteen seconds!” Another cheer.

When Sally looked up again, it took a moment, but then she saw it.

On the back of Jaxon’s helmet, where of course he couldn’t see it, was an extra camera. A seventh. However, no one would see the image coming from this one, not even the premies, because there was no real lens. Not camera electronics inside. Just a shell.

I looked at her and popped my eyebrows, waiting for the knowing grin.

But from Sally, no grin.

No knowing.

She frowned, and I frowned back.

Apparently, nineteenth-century gunslingers didn’t know very much about physics. That was fine. She’d learn in—

“Five seconds!”

—give or take.

CHAPTER TWO

EXT. PHILADELPHIA INDUSTRIAL DISTRICT, WAREHOUSE - NIGHT

Dark.

The kind of dark that has no light, like really zero light. Not even an afterglow. None of that stuff.

We HEAR a CLANK!

Someone’s closed the circuit on the interior fluorescent lights, which pop and fizzle, waking up like sleeping coyotes in a field on the edge of suburbia after they catch the scent of a juicy Pomeranian.

The first hero we see is lean but tall, wearing an eye mask and a two-toned body suit that hugs tight, ropey muscles as he strides to the large worktable in the middle of the warehouse floor.

This is DIRK.

He’s followed by a mammoth of a man. Wearing a two-toned suit, red and gray, but no mask, he barely appears human. More like a mix between a bear and a blood sausage.

This is TURK.

TURK

Dammit, we nearly had him!

DIRK

(pouring himself a drink)

Slipped through our fingers.

VOICE (O.C.)

Again.

Striding in, a woman formerly known as Valerie Powers, human-rights-lawyer-turned-vigilante-assassin.

This is MERC.

MERC

Where were you guys? I had a bead on Killmaster,

and then—

TURK

Someone didn’t disable the alarm codes.

All are quiet as we hear a squeaky metal door CREAK open and slam. Collectively, they audibly SIGH.

A moment later, we hear someone off camera stumble over what might be empty paint cans with a CLATTER.

VOICE (O.C.)

Dammit!

Turk looks over at the others, offers a half smile, and shakes his head slowly.

Before their fourth member stumbles into the room, a bent sword bounces on the floor and smacks into Dirk’s leg.

Finally, a short, stocky figure in chain mail, leather, and a medieval-looking metal helmet stumbles into the room, trips on his empty scabbard, and tumbles to the floor.

This is QUIRK.

QUIRK

Dammit, dammit!

MERC

(eyes shifting between the other two nervously)

Uh, hey, Quirk! Everything was, um, set on my end.

(she then finds her rhythm again)

But when I lined up the shot, the floodlights blacked out,

and the warning sirens—

QUIRK

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

The woman’s mouth hanging open with her last unsaid word, she watches as the dwarf member of their crew digs into his pants and pulls out a flask.

Again, the three others trade glances.

TURK

Uh, hey, you know there’s no, um,

drinking on the job, Quirk!

What are y—

Quirk tosses the flask aside, scowling.

QUIRK

Empty.

He digs under his belt up to his elbow. Finally, he pulls out another flask and takes a long draw.

DIRK

Whoa, now, Quirky. Um…

(he wavers then, to someone off camera, says)

Hey, Daveed, is he supposed to do that?

Everyone watches as Quirk grabs a locked chest with one hand, lifts it, and sets it on its side. Several pieces of Styrofoam sprinkle across the floor.

QUIRK

Fuck, I hate this gig.

MERC

What? Wait…

(she turns off cam)

Daveed, I thought this was PG-13 or something?

Are we swearing?

An off-screen voice yells something unintelligible then calls for a crew member.

DAVEED (OC)

Uncle Jerry! Tend to your talent!

A disheveled-looking older man wearing overalls and, oddly, a cravat hurries in. Halfway across the floor, he drops his Starbucks coffee, which sets a milky fluid oozing across the floor.

AD (OC)

Clean up!

The man grabs Quirk by the shoulder pad and ushers him from the room.

INT. WAREHOUSE ANTEROOM - NIGHT

Quirk drains the last of his second flask and starts digging for another in his pants. Struggling, he yanks something free and holds it out. Frowning, he stares at a pair of torn boxer briefs.

QUIRK

Huh.

UNCLE JERRY

Goddamn it, you’re going to get us kicked

off this film! You know how hard it was to get

you this role after you soiled the fairy princess

on the last one?

Ignoring him, Quirk starts checking his coat pockets. His outfit has a lot of pockets.

UNCLE JERRY (CONT)

Are you listening to me? You’re running out

of production houses to piss off!

Finally, the older man digs into his duffle bag, pulls out a glass pint bottle, and tosses it to Quirk.

QUIRK

(cradling the bottle in his stubby fingers)

Oh, sweet nectar. Make the bad people go away.

UNCLE JERRY

I’m stressed, man. I didn’t sign up for this shit.

I was just supposed to be a driver, not a manager

or a goddamn agent.

QUIRK

Jimmy quit. I needed you.

UNCLE JERRY

What if I quit?

QUIRK

We’re friends. You can’t quit friends.

(he takes a swig and smacks his damp lips)

And this is a shit gig anyhow.

The Irksome Four. What kind of stupid

fucking title is that for a film?

A man strides through the door, gripping a black walkie-talkie like he may brain someone with it. His face is red, his hands trembling. This is DAVEED. He’s the director of a shitty made-for-streaming movie called The Irksome Four.

DAVEED

(to Quirk)

Get the fuck off my set.

Quirk replies with a burp that bubbles at his lips.

DAVEED

(to Uncle Jerry)

Get him the fuck off my set.

UNCLE JERRY

Dav, baby, if you can just—

DAVEED

No more chances! You have sixty seconds,

and then Marjory is calling the Philly police!

Quirk snorts and belly laughs.

QUIRK

We ain’t in Philadelphia, you dumb fuck.

We’re in Glasgow made to LOOK like Philly.

(he burps again)

Moron.

Daveed spins, his face now purple with rage, and jams a finger into Uncle Jerry’s face.

DAVEED

Forty-five seconds!

Off camera, a voice calls out—

DAVEED (CONT)

What? What do yo—oh, shit.

(cups his hands around his mouth as he exits)

CUT! Cut, goddamn it!

Uncle Jerry leaned back against a worktable filled with recharging units for walkies, strips of bailing wire, and rolls of duct tape. The space was crammed with storage boxes and racks upon racks of costumes for the shoot.

After a quick glance back at the door, he rounded his shoulders. He then walked over and sat next to the Actor.

“Ah, screw it,” he said and patted his friend on the shoulder. “We’ll find you another gig.”

The other man sighed and took another pull from the bottle Uncle Jerry had given him.

Then he threw up.

The old pilot stood, took one step toward a rack of clothing marked with a placard that read Dirk, grabbed what looked like a tracksuit made from pleather, and sat back down. He tossed Dirk’s costume on top of the mess on the floor.

“Thank you,” the Actor said. He put his feet on the outfit, which made a squishing sound.

“You know, screw these guys. You’re better than all this stuff,” Uncle Jerry said. “You’re a right pain in the ass, but you are a damn fine actor.”

The other man sniffed and nodded, staring at the floor.

“Come on,” Uncle Jerry said. “I wouldn’t have crossed the planet with you if ya weren’t!”

The Actor laughed. “Double-crossed, really. Maybe we shoulda stayed in China.”

“You ready to learn Mandarin now?”

“No-wa.” The short man stood and stretched his legs. “I don’t even know why that was any sort of requirement. Legendary does films all the time in English.”

“New market. Gotta work your way up.”

“You know in the first Godzilla movie, Raymond Burr spoke English! The whole time. And that film made bazillions! A whole franchise still going strong!”

Uncle Jerry frowned. “You know that was made in Japan, right? Not Chin—”

“Same diff!”

“And, if we’re putting all the cards on the table, Burr shot his scenes like two years later, and they Franken-spliced them into the original film. Weird.”

“That would be perfect! Oh, God, the dream, I wouldn’t have to even be in the same room as the other actors. Just my trailer on the lot. Craft services all to myself,” the Actor said, swooning. “Maybe we shoulda stayed in Los Angeles.”

“That’s out.” Uncle Jerry shifted uncomfortably. “After you killed everyone on your sword-and-sorcery show, the fans kinda, you know, don’t like you.”

“They hate me,” he mumbled. “And I didn’t kill them! They should hate the stupid writers who wrote that!”

“Nobody knows who the writers are.”

“Good!” the Actor said. “At least the world got that part right.”

Uncle Jerry stood and wiped his hands on his overalls. When he saw his reflection in a standing mirror, he frowned, stripped off the cravat, and tossed it on top of a bay of charging walkie-talkies.

“There’ll be more work, man. You gave this outfit three shots, and three strikes, they’re out! There’s different production houses all over the UK.” The old man walked over and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “We could get you on that Sherlock show. You do a wicked Brit accent from what I remember.”

Despite the Actor’s decision to be in a bad mood, the comment made him laugh.

A production assistant entered the room, adjusting the wrap-around mic of her headset. She was shaking slightly, wide-eyed and muttering, but when she caught sight of the Actor and Uncle Jerry, her nervousness turned to anger.

“Why are you two still here? Daveed said you gotta go!”

“We’re going. We just—”

The PA put up her hand, indicating for him to stop. “If Daveed sees you still here, he’ll shit kittens.”

Uncle Jerry said, “I’d pay a dollar to see that.”

The Actor said, “I’ll chip in a buck.”

“Two dollars,” Uncle Jerry said. “Where’s Daveed? We want kittens!”

Ignoring them, the woman pulled the mic closer to her face, listened intently, nodded, and then said, “You’ve got a car waiting out front. Every step from this moment must be taking you toward it.”

Then she split from the room. The Actor looked up at his friend and popped an eyebrow.

“Can’t keep the car waiting, my friend,” he said. The Actor reached under his collar and pulled a zipper, and the entire outfit came off and fell to the floor. Uncle Jerry handed him a plush purple robe emblazoned with the words Iota Pictures across the back.

* * *

The warehouse door opened and banged against the side of the wall. Standing at the threshold, Uncle Jerry and the Actor stared into the clear night, across the water, at the Glasgow skyline.

“You think this place looks like Philly?”

“Don’t got no bell,” Uncle Jerry said. “Can’t be Philly with no bell.”

“Gentlemen,” a deep female voice said in an accent neither man could quite place. When they looked over, they saw a limo—a stretch limo—sitting by the curb.

Uncle Jerry let out a low whistle.

“Be cool, man,” the Actor whispered. To the woman in the driver’s cap, he said, “My good man—err, woman—we are ready to roll. Back to the hotel with a pit stop at your local bottle shop, if you please.”

The driver opened the rear door. The car’s interior was dark.

“There’s liquor in the back,” she said. “But you’re not going to the hotel.”

The two men stopped midstride.

“Like hell we ain’t! Our man needs his cleansing shower, been a long day.”

“Maybe after,” she said, nodding at the door. “Induna is waiting for you. He does not like to wait.”

The two men looked at each other and, as if they were some sort of synchronized shrugging team, shrugged at each other.

“Who?” the Actor said. “Never heard of the guy.”

The driver pointed at the small man’s clothes. “You’re wearing his robe.”

“These folks are very attached to their clothing, it seems,” Uncle Jerry said. “Why don’t we give the robe back and head to the hot—”

“Induna is your boss,” the woman said, losing patience. “And has been your financier on the three pictures you walked off of.”

“Oh, shit.”

The woman smiled. “He would like to talk to you.”

CHAPTER THREE

Dr. Harriet Schimanski dropped a lime wedge into the fizzing concoction. The slice of citrus made a desperate race to the bottom, far from the caustic air above, only to be seized by a garrison of tiny bubbles that dragged it back up to the surface.

Through angled eyes, she looked at the reflection in the bar mirror of her cherry-wood bookcase and held her glass up.

“You sure you guys don’t want one?”

“Um…” The man in his twenties, maybe thirties—his age was in her notes somewhere, she was fairly certain—looked at his bare wrist and said, “it’s a bit early.”

“Time is an illusion,” she said. She spun around unsteadily, took a few cautious strides to her plush chair, and dropped into it with a bounce. “Except billable time, of course.”

She smiled, but, as usual, she’d been the only one.

Her clients were a young couple struggling with what she’d categorized as a “booty dysmorphic disorder.” She’d thought of the term late one evening while on a G&T binge, giggling at its inappropriateness, to represent when couples saw each other differently than they really were.

This was only their second session, and she was surprisingly seeing some real progress. She might have to ease up on that progress if she wanted to drag their marriage counseling out long enough for the down payment on a Jacuzzi she’d had her eye on.

“Where were we?” Dr. Harriet grinned and took a tiny sip of her drink. Grabbing her notes, she tapped her pencil on the picture she’d drawn of her long-dead cat. Hard to get the shading right. “Ah, right. Anna, you—”

“Anza,” the woman said, in a short, clipped accent. “How can you are forgetting my name all the time?”

“Ah, names are merely labels we use to hide the truth.”

“The truth is my name is Anza!”

“I see,” Dr. Harriet said, steepling her damp fingertips.

“Not Anna or Hannah or… or…”

“Zsa Zsa,” the husband reminded her.

“Yes! None of these things,” Anza said and took a deep breath. “How can you helping if you can never even remember my name? What are we paying you for?”

Dr. Harriet smiled. “All part of the process.”

Dan, the husband, furrowed his brow. “What process?”

“And, in truth, you aren’t paying yet. Daniel’s employer is funding our first three sessions, and after that, it’ll be time to pull out the ol’ checkbook.”

“Well,” Dan said, his eyes cutting from the psychiatrist to his wife, “no one really uses checkbooks anymore. Not sure if that’s the point, but—”

Dr. Harriet put a hand up and shook her head slowly, a tiny, sad smile bending her lips.

“I think both of you are doing what we professionals call ‘blocking.’ Don’t you think we should be talking about your challenges, not about names and notebooks?”

“Checkbooks,” Dan muttered.

Lifting her drink, ice clinking in the glass, the tiny lime wedge getting battered mercilessly at its hard edge, Dr. Harriet pointed her index finger at the man, addressing Anza.

“Does he do that often? The correcting?”

The misdirect worked beautifully. Dan’s wife had turned her frown on him.

“Yes, he do, all the time,” she said.

“Not all the time.”

Anza pointed. “See?”

“I just—”

“Dan, Dan, Dan,” Dr. Harriet said. “You have a number of matters at play here, and, sure, some will take weeks and months to properly sort out. But first, I need the two of you”—she reached out, putting each hand on her clients’ knees—“to see each other as you really are. Instead of some twisted ideal of who you’ve decided they are.”

“Twisty ideal?” Anza said.

“You’ve had a troubled few years,” Dr. Harriet said, “which changed how you view one another. Your perception is skewed by, frankly, the baggage you brought here into my office.”

“Baggage?” Dan said.

“Yes,” the doctor said with a laugh and tiny hiccup. “And, man, it’s like flight 240 from Chicago landed, ’cause the bags are coming down the conveyor belt, and they just keep coming!”

“Wut?” Anza said.

Dan leaned forward, casually sweeping her hand off his knee. “Do you really think it’s all that bad. Our, uh, baggage?”

“You’ve got to sort it out, Dan,” the doctor said, returning her hand to his knee and squeezing it. “We’ll have to tie a red ribbon around one of them, one at a time, pull them off the carousel, and start digging into the contents.”

“What red ribbon?”

“Pull out the restricted items,” the counselor continued. “Get rid of the citrus, the nuts.” She looked serious. “The biomatter.”

Once again, Anza started to protest, and once again, Dr. Harriet put her hand up. “Even if the hand says stop, the heart still says go.”

“Best suggestion yet,” Anza said, hopping to her feet. “Let’s go, Daniel.”

Dan bobbed his head between the two women, his mouth hanging open. When his wife took a few steps toward the door, Dr. Harriet sighed.

“There are no solutions beyond that door, are there?” she said. “You looked and looked, but then you came here. Give it a chance.”

Anza stared at the door, desperately wanting to be on the other side of it. Then she looked back toward her husband, who was staring at her. His sad eyes broke her heart all over again.

“You said when you looked at Daniel, your husband, you saw a monster. You even called him”—Dr. Harriet looked at her notepad. Maybe she needed to work on the tail a bit more—“a demon. How do you think that makes him feel?”

Dampness filled Anza’s eyes. The problem was that her husband Dan was a demon. Not wholly, of course. The radio station he worked for was owned through various shell companies by an entity known as Hell inc.

Hell inc. was new media. On Earth, that meant they’d acquired social networks, influencer platforms, and dim sum restaurants but also had their tentacles in some of the more traditional outlets, like Dan’s radio group.

This meant, by proxy, those working within those organizations were like Hell inc.’s freelancers, something most of them didn’t even know.

Dan knew because Anza had told him. Every time she looked at him, she could see the results of that contract on his face. Past the feints, she saw blood-red eyes, rotting flesh, and a mangle of pointed teeth.

“I cannot help it,” she said, tears falling as she returned to the couch. “It is what I see. Cannot be helped.”

“It’s only your perception of Dan,” Dr. Harriet said and took a slug of her G&T. She pointed at the husband with the index finger of her drink hand. “For his part, he’s got you up on a pedestal, which isn’t much better.”

Dan looked at Anza and saw an angel. Beautiful glowing face, light radiating off her like the warm sun, and even the hint of snow-white wings. He’d actually never seen her wings come out, but he knew they were there.

Because, of course, Anza was an angel. Or rather, a half angel, a contracted worker for the lot upstairs. After a few stumbles, her ninety-day probationary period had been extended a few months with a series of warnings.

And her bosses did not like that she was living with someone from the other side. But Anza wanted to make it work. Opposites attract and all that.

In the silence, Dr. Harriet tried to get them back on track.

“You both still want to make this work, right?”

The couple nodded, each with their eyes downcast.

“Great,” the counselor said and raised her fists in the air. “See? We’re getting somewhere! We’re all on the same side here. And if we work together as a team, all three of us, this will work. We just need to go slow, find the small wins, and get to what matters.”

For the first time, both Anza and Dan smiled.

“So,” Dr. Harriet said. After taking a quick sip, she chewed on the lime wedge then spit it on the floor. “How’s the sex?”

CHAPTER FOUR

“Action” Jaxon Dragon stood with arms spread high atop El Capitan, black nylon toe shoes dangling off the cliff face. From the reporters’ perspective down on the ground, he looked like a well-built fly about to leap off the edge of a kitchen table.

Even from here, the bulge on the front of the wingsuit cast a small shadow across the man’s leg.

“That ain’t real,” Don Lime said, twirling his mic cable lazily in his hand. “He’s jammed a sock down there so it looks meatier.”

The cameraman, Gunter, was talking to Master Control back at The Network, preparing to go live the moment the New York host threw to Don. Gunter turned and checked the other camera, which was smaller and perched on a gimbal apparatus. This camera would track Jaxon as he flew through the giant letters down below. Off the cameraman’s right shoulder, his monitor showed both feeds: Don’s and the flight tracker.

With the equipment all set up, Gunter glanced at the image of Jaxon in the monitor.

“Maybe he’s wearing a cup,” Gunter said. “He’s an athlete or something, right?”

Don took a drag from a cigarette he’d cupped in his left hand then hid it away again. “That’s not a cup. He’s got a double boiler over it. Just for show.”

“How would you know? Was that where you disappeared to last night?”

With a wink, Don shrugged. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“No. No, I would not.” Gunter tucked his headset mic closer to his mouth. “Not you, MCR, we’re good to go here. I was saying no to Don. He’s trying to make me gay again.”

“Your loss,” Don said, flicking away his smoke. He then fingered his IFB earpiece, stared down the barrel of the camera, and gave a thumbs-up to the network producer watching the feed. To his long-time cameraman, he said, “You’re too homely anyhow. You’d get zero play.”

“I’m married. I already got zero play.”

High above, an air horn uttered its plaintive bleat, cuing Don to plaster on his brilliant, perfect smile. He began nodding along to whatever the New York host was blathering about and grabbed the toss.

“Exactly! Several thousand people here, many thousands more watching online to see ‘Action’ Jaxon do his flying squirrel thing. On our secondary shot, Rhonda, you’ll watch live as Jaxon rockets down the side of El Capitan, and then—Gunter, show the end of the track—he’ll shoot through the center of that letter A, over the top of the next crest, and then parachute down to a safe landing.”

The host said something in Don’s ear, and Don smiled and laughed. “Yes, right! This guy is the ultimate dare-devil.”

The reporters’ eyes danced a little at that last word, a private joke he’d hoped his camera guy would pick up on. The term was more appropriate than viewers at home knew.

“Right, right,” Don said, holding up a finger. “Hold on, the horn you heard a moment ago means he’s ready to go.”

* * *

Jaxon Dragon, born Brian Meriwether, twinkled his black-clad piggies off the cliff’s edge, pinwheeled his arms a few times, and twisted his head left and right. To the casual onlooker—my adoring fans, especially the premies! Chang-ching, baby!—these moves would have looked like some sort of stretching routine. Loosening up. Getting in the zone.

Actually, Jaxon was scoping out the talent, deciding who got to sleep with him after the flight. He always required lovin’ after a stunt. Just like a warrior after battle. Which of you will have the honor of being my wenches?

Wench candidates, it might surprise some to learn, didn’t need to be gorgeous. Or even attractive. Or thin. Or tall. Or even terribly clean. They could be male or female, didn’t matter. Any face or race but gotta be headcase!

He laughed at the thought.

His taste in lovers ran in a particular spectrum: low self-esteem, wholly insecure, desperate to please. This way, they were easier to throw away when he was done.

But for now, he had to focus on the flight. After months of promotion and interviews—TV, radio, podcasts—the entire event would last less than thirty seconds. Yet given the subscriptions and purchases of his books and videos, he’d estimated each of those seconds would be worth five figures!

Beneath his oversized athletic cup, he felt a stirring but forgot it quickly at the sound of the first tone.

BLAAAAAAAAANNGGG!

This noise rang out from loudspeakers atop a panel van parked just twenty feet away, one of its wheels precariously close to the edge. On the side of the van was an eight-foot-high image of his face.

Jaxon took a deep breath and flexed, rocking back and forth.

BLAAAAAAAAANNGGG!

One more ’til go time!

He loved the fame and money and crazy booty, sure, but this was a real thrill. The feeling of being a bird—no, an eagle!—soaring through the air. The roar of applause below, the wind beneath his wings, lifting him higher and higher.

He pulled the goggles over his eyes and readied in his crouch, letting the euphoric nervousness wash over him. He needed to loosen up—he felt tense, his muscles taut. Especially in his neck, which ached already, but again, he put that down to the jitters.

Each time he bobbed his head, however, something sparkled in his brain. Like an inner voice trying to get attention.

However, that voice was drowned out by—

BLAAAAAAAAANNGGG!

Without another thought, he leapt into the air and sank like a stone.

The crowd gasped as he plummeted toward the earth, skirting the rock face so close he could almost reach out and touch it! Straight down, down, down at terminal velocity, the ground coming at him like a murderous foe, and at the last moment—

Fwooooshh!

His arms spread, Jaxon turned the fall into a swooping arch. Even over the rush of wind filling his ears, he could hear the crowd—above and below—cheering.

His heart was filled to bursting with their love, admiration, and potential subscriber dollars.

“Action” Jaxon Dragon flew three hundred yards over the heads of the little people as he hitched his shoulder to adjust his flight, a little more to the left, his back arched, fingertips cutting like knife blades through the air, legs stretched like a panther leaping toward its prey, and custom athletic protector whistling like a kettle as he violated the virgin air space.

The first of the tricolored balloon arrays rose, and he rocketed past them, snapping the tips of the strings like a whip crack.

Again the crowd cheered, even louder than before!

Ahead, one more long ribbon of balloons marked his historic path, but his eyes didn’t focus on that. He was staring wistfully at the beauty, the wonder of the thing closest to his heart in this entire world.

His eyes watered slightly as the letters came into view: Jax.

Faster now, he could sense nearby birds casting jealous glances toward him, the feathered females likely wondering how they might attract such an impressive, virile mate.

Focus, focus!

He had to stay on track. One more set of balloons—oh, they let them go a bit early. No matter, he would swoop just below them, and his mighty wind would give them the whipping they craved! And as he shot past, the balloons did indeed flutter and snap, the adoring crowd below shouting in ecstasy as their hero passed.

Just seconds away from his big finish, his beloved name coming closer and closer. He was staring right at the spot, the bullseye, the payoff!

But there was that feeling again.

He felt the slightest twinge in his mind, which was now joined by a growing twinge in his neck—very slight, but he didn’t remember that ache before. He’d done his stretching, yoga, and hot rock therapy earlier this morning.

In a few seconds, he would parachute to uproarious applause then work through the dozen or so interviews. After that, he’d have to hit the Jacuzzi in the hotel. Even now, he could envision the handful of admirers already getting quiet invitations to join him back at the penthouse suite.

Jaxon smiled as he flew closer to the letters, his eyes slightly raised as he locked onto his target, where he’d shoot through what he’d dubbed the “glory hole,” because, yes, there would be glory!

Closer and closer, he could see his goal.

Then, he smiled, and his eyes fell closed.

He would enjoy this moment, try to slow it down in his mind, anticipate the explosion of cheering that awaited him. He stretched the final second out as long as he could. In the very last moment, he opened his eyes and looked up…

Up?

* * *

“Don? DON?” The New York television host’s voice crackled, overmodulating, as she shouted through the earpiece, trying to get Don Lime’s attention over the wailing crowd. On camera, the reporter was staring. For once, no words came out of his mouth.

Oh, it was open. Wide open. But no words emerged from it.

“Action” Jaxon Dragon lay sprawled out in the grassy field just below his twenty-foot-high metal signature. He also lay about fifty yards beyond the sign. At least his head did.

“Don!”

Finally, the reporter regained his composure as a half dozen expressions played across his face, all fighting for dominion.

“Uh, yes, yes,” he said, stammering. “I think—”

Then he stopped.

And then one of the emotions did win the battle of Don’s face—anger. Because now he’d spotted someone—someones—at the very top of El Capitan. As an agent of Hell inc., Don Lime had slightly different vision from the normal people. And he saw two of the Old Man’s people.

Rasputin Frewer.

And that stupid nineteenth-century cowgirl, Sally Whatsherface.

The word he muttered next was not fit for broadcast.

* * *

Up on top of El Capitan, pandemonium reigned. Fans and workers and reporters all streamed toward the chairlift in such a frenzied mass, I worried some of them would tumble off the cliff like panicked lemmings.

Sally, despite herself, was laughing so hard her face was bloodred. Doubled over, she was actually slapping her knee.

“Can you keep it down?” I whispered hoarsely. “People are starting to stare!”

“Hellfire, Christ on a cracker, that was… Razzie, that was beautiful.”

I did not feel the beauty of it. I felt ill.

I’d helped kill the guy. Sure, he’d been a complete douche canoe. And, yes, “Action” Jaxon worked for Hell inc., an organization that had tried to kill me more times than I could count.

The daredevil wasn’t their first operative Team Sally had taken out. Far from it. His was just the first death I had orchestrated.

However, I knew the supposed “war” was coming. Sally had said as much and not much more. This murder was just part of that coming battle.

And, truth be told, Sally had been seconds away from blowing the guy’s head off twenty-four hours earlier as he sipped a faux-mocha latte. With chocolate sprinkles.

The coffee had had chocolate sprinkles. Sally wasn’t going to blow his head off with chocolate sprinkles. Although that might have been more pleasant than getting decapitated by your own damn name.

“Okay, tell me, now,” Sally said, finally whispering. “How’d you do it?”

“Buckshot,” I said, leaning in close and lowering my voice.

Sally waited for more. When I didn’t give it to her, she rolled her hand.

“Inside the fake camera I mounted on his helmet,” I said. “Filled it with some of your buckshot. Might have been, at best, a quarter pound of extra weight but…”

Again, I waited for her knowing grin.

No knowing.

No grin.

Finally, I said, “It made his head heavier so that during the flight, he would drop slightly lower, like a tenth of a degree, but over the length of the flight path, that added up.”

The gunslinger scratched underneath her hat, thought for a moment, then looked back at me.

“Added up to what?”

With a weak smile, I pointed below at the long expanse of green grass and the tiny people rushing back and forth. Far above them, several dozen balloons played indecisively in the wind.

At the very end of the track, way in the distance—I turned her head so she was looking at the letters—lay the result of a handful of lead pellets in a tiny fake camera:

j x

CHAPTER FIVE

Through the long lines of snarled traffic along I-5, I steered the sleek, black motorcycle, narrowly avoiding cars, trucks, mirrors, and discarded beer cans and take-out coffee cups. Frustrated, I spun turned toward Sally, riding on the back.

“I think some of these vehicles are trying to hit us,” I said, yelling over the wind.

“Don’t be stupid,” she said, arms folded and feet up on her custom pegs. “They’re all trying to hit us. Watch where you’re going.”

That got a chuckle out of me. “You think I’m really steering Boo?”

“Don’t call ‘im that!”

Sally had originally named her Hell-born bike Horse, of all things. Sure, she was a one hundred sixty-seven-year-old gunslinger, but that just wasn’t trying. I’d renamed the bike after one the greatest stallions that ever lived. Alexander the Great’s Bucephalus.

Boo for short.

She no likey.

Me and Sally had come to an arrangement months earlier—I would be her driver, a motorcycle chauffeur if that was a thing, and she in turn would give me a roof over my head and avoid shooting me. Fair trade.

Boo was one of a kind, and with just one special word, whoa boy, she would motor!

I leaned in and said, “Giddyup.”

* * *

Home base was a ranch house Sally had won in either a card game or a shootout. That said, I’d only played cards with Sally once and discovered those events were not mutually exclusive.

After I parked the bike in its home, the house’s detached concrete garage, we walked up the path to the house. I still let Sally lead the way because the perimeter security instantly recognized the owner of the home.

For me, at the start, it hadn’t gone so smoothly.

The first time, two large, mounted machine guns burst from either side of the door and riddled me with holes. Luckily, I was in her employ, so I was working for the Downstairs and not so easy to kill.

Still hurt like a bugger.

After she’d taken a few minutes to recalibrate it, we tried again. She’d gotten it half right, I suppose, because only one of the guns had fired at me. Still hurt.

Finally, she’d called a tech in to take care of it—one of those Nerd Squad guys. He’s buried about a hundred yards away from the house next to some desert flowers that I tend to from time to time.

But after some trial and error—and the destruction of three nice shirts, two pair of pants, and one jaunty beret (it was a phase)—we’d finally gotten the security system right.

“You still skittish?”

“No,” I said. “I just really like this shirt.”

Once inside, Sally headed to her room to hang up her gear. I rubbed my feet on the mat, let out a deep breath, and ambled into the kitchen.

Unfortunately for me, one of Sally’s daytime talk shows claimed the healthiest diets were those from the Mediterranean. Lots of vitamin-infused oils, sun-dried tomatoes, and weird, unpronounceable cheeses.

However, on occasion, I would try to slip a little Tex-Mex into our menu to keep it interesting.

“Is that a chimichanga?” she growled at me, wiping her hands on her vest.

“It’s got chicken in it,” I’d smiled. “Healthy.”

Both fists on the table, she glared at me. “Where’s the quinoa? Or spaghetti squash?”

“Just trying to mix it up a little.”

“Well, then, why don’t we mix up an arugula salad with some chickpeas. How ’bout that? Maybe a pesto Buddha bowl or something. Ain’t you got any sense? Dr. Oz on the TV said—”

“You’re taking dietary advice from Dr. Oz now?”

“Hellfire, the man is a board-certified cardiothoracic surgeon! Knows a helluva lot more than you do about what’s good eatin’ for the body.”

“You know he’s one of them, right?” I asked and got a roll of the eyes. “You’re going to eat what some asshat operative of Hell inc. recommends?”

Not surprisingly, I was, once again, staring down the barrel of her pistol.

“You don’t disparage Dr. Oz while you’re livin’ under my roof.”

Sally eased into her chair at the dinner table. At that moment, she looked every bit of her 167 years. When she lifted her head and saw me watching her, she gave me a weak grin and waved her hand.

“Anything in the box?” she said.

Ah. Right.

I went to the refrigerator, grabbed the handle, twisted it a quarter turn, and pulled. One side of the icebox lifted away from the wall, revealing a small room hidden in the back. The moment the fridge door opened, the lights within winked to life.

As I stepped inside, she called out: “Let ’em know I done this job before you go and bid on another.”

I thought to myself, You done this job? I was the one who came up with—

“And don’t think about laying out any details about fake cameras filled with balls or nothin’. They only care the job is done and that we’re on to the next.”

Plopping down into the chair in front of the computer, I sighed.

“We gotta put an AC unit in here or something,” I said. “The fridge is pumping heat back here. It’s like an oven.”

“Don’t bother me none.”

The screen came to life, showing me a Unix start-up page. I'd missed my old Windows machine, but, of course, like all the other tech giants, they were affiliated with the "other guys." Social media, too, so until the Old Man was able to coax some designer over to his side, we'd all be stuck in a computer world circa 1996.

Or rather, the Old Man's lieutenants. Not the Devil himself.

No one had seen hide nor hair of the guy since, um, an encounter at the Crossroads a while back. Details were sketchy, and endless theories about how it had happened swirled on various news groups and bulletin boards. Bulletin boards that you had to dial into, by the way.

Of course, I knew what had happened.

I'd been there.

That interaction had been during my first foray into this strange world. After my wife, Cassie, got sick, and her doctors threw in the HMO towel, I'd gotten it in my head that I could fix it. My fix for it was heading to the Crossroads and making a literal deal with the actual Devil.

A wager, really. He'd given me a few days to find an ancient lamp that could cure Cassie. If I found the lamp, we'd be square. If I didn't, he'd get, well, me.

In the end, it didn't turn out so well for Beelzebub. I'd heard he'd gotten blasted to the eighth dimension or some sort, whatever that meant.

And I still lost my Cassie.

You didn't lose me, baby.

You're not here, though, are you?

Oh, babes. I'm always here.

Always?

Always.

Like when I'm in the shower.

Especially when you're in the shower, she said. I could hear that little growl in her voice, and I loved that.

What about when I'm using the toilet?

You're ruining the moment.

What moment? Were we having a moment?

We were having a moment. And, you know, we’ll have more moments.

When, babydoll?

Soon. Not too soon. But soon.

I mouse-wheeled through the long list of Hell inc. targets, each with a moronic picture next to it. I found Jaxon Dragon’s listing and clicked the box labeled Completed.

Jaxon’s line turned gray, and two tiny Xs appeared on the eyes of his image, which was represented by a cartoon character. Hell’s IT department was paranoid about getting hacked, so everything was encoded.

Thus, instead of a Jaxon Dragon picture, ol’ Action-man was represented by Scooby-Doo’s stupid little cousin Scrappy.

A spot in my chest hurt a bit at the thought I had something to do with Jaxon’s death, but I buried it in a dark pit of other emotional scars deep in my psyche. Of course, left unaddressed, all that pain would one day manifest as something self-destructive like alcoholism or an obsessive, middle-aged interest in cycling. Not a good plan, but it was a plan.

Time to find another job.

I started at the top because the higher-value targets were listed there. Currently number three on Hell’s leaderboard, Sally wanted to be at the top, and I was ashamed of my queer desire to help her get there.

Of course, if you ranked high enough at the end of the quarter, you did get some nifty new toys from Downstairs. That was where Sally had picked up her home security system a few years back.

Maybe next quarter, we could get an update that didn’t shoot mailmen and Uber drivers.

A few of the top listings appeared in red. These were some agreed-upon group of untouchables, high-ranking men and women of either side.

Strangely, yours truly had made Hell inc.’s untouchable list. When I’d asked Sally about it, she’d brushed it off and said it was because I wasn’t worth the bullets. My gunslinging roomie was not an untouchable.

“We got a Steamboat Willie that’s riding pretty high,” I shouted toward the dining room. “He’s in New York City, but—”

“Not New York,” Sally said in a tired voice. “Told ya before. I don’t go to New York, you don’t go to New York, and we don’t go to New York.”

I always knew it was serious when she began conjugating, so I dropped it. Again.

Flipping through, I tried to find something in the Americas—Sally also didn’t like to leave the States—and, ideally, some target on the West Coast.

“Oh, this could get you to number two. The Powerpuff Girls.”

She let out a bark of a laugh. “I ain’t going to Canada, too damn cold.”

“It’s July.”

“In Canada, it’s always January,” she said, slurring a little.

I clicked on the drop-down window and read beneath the stupid picture of three tiny cartoon girls with dish-plate eyes. I traced my finger down the screen as I scanned their details.

“Huh,” I said. “Not in Canada. Seems like the Powerpuff Girls—”

“Barton sisters.”

“Right, Barton sisters. Seems like latest intel is that they’re on the move. In fact, likely in California.”

Behind me, I heard the shuffling of Sally’s boots across the tile floor. A moment later, I looked up to see her leaning on the secret room’s entryway, shoulders slumped.

“You all right?” I asked.

“Just tired. I could still kill ya with a blink.”

“No blinking, then.”

“Razzie, don’t know if I got the gumption to get into a gun battle with three assassins at the same time,” she said. “Ain’t there any other options within, you know, ridin’ distance?”

I laughed, about to remind her that with Boo, “within riding distance” was really anywhere from the North Pole to Cape Horn, but a ding! caught my attention.

The screen tinted red. In the middle of it appeared a small GIF of an envelope. Priority messages were never good.

Sally grumbled, “Oy gevalt, what’s up now?”

When the envelope spun, a name sprang up in the “mail to” window: Rasputin Frewer!

“What the hell?” I said. “How many people even know I’m working with you, Sal?”

On the screen, the envelope continued to flip lengthwise, my name flashing like a taunt.

“Not many,” she said and stepped into the room. “See that bat-and-ball symbol?”

“The wh—? You mean the exclamation point?”

She darkened for a moment then thumped her finger on the screen. “It means the message comes from the top of the food chain. Direct.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better? Taking orders directly from the top? I work with you, for you, Sally. I don’t want to be one of Hell’s minions.”

“You know,” she said, reaching for the mouse, “Dr. Oz would call that being ‘in denial’.”

When she leaned past me to click on the message, the front door exploded.

Instantly, Sally whipped both of her pistols out, aiming as she stalked out of the tiny room. Nearly as quickly, I jumped up and out of the chair, hiding behind the reinforced wall. A rolling cloud of smoke and smell of burnt wood wafted into the tiny room.

“You wait here,” she said, calling over her shoulder, a lunatic smile on her face.

“Ya think?”

Sally jumped back when a hail of bullets rained down upon her, one of them passing right through the brim of her cowboy hat.

The gunslinger growled and cocked both hammers then leaned back out, firing them so quickly they sounded like machine guns. Cordite smoke now mixed into the noxious cloud filling the room.

Sally bobbed her head out quickly then ducked back in.

“Think we got some trouble.”

I whispered to her, “Can’t you get us outta here?”

“They’re at the door, and another one is buzzing around the other side of the house.”

“Why didn’t the security system stop them? Or even warn—”

She held a finger up to her lips and tracked some movement on the far side of the living room. Sally cursed under her breath.

“Musta found a way to shut it down,” she said. Sally flipped open both of her guns, dropped the empty shells to the floor, and reloaded. “At least that’s one mystery solved.”

“What does that mean?”

“Barton sisters are definitely in California,” she said and cocked the hammers back on both pistols again. “And they are definitely surrounding the house.”

Unreal, I thought. I’m going to get killed by the fucking Powerpuff Girls.

CHAPTER SIX

Film producer Induna Nemukula’s “summer home” was impressive.

But who has a castle as a summer home? the Actor thought as he eyeballed his goblet of wine, frowning.

He liked what was in the cup, but really, it was hard to sip from a goblet with a straight face. This one was pewter—a heavy thing that took two hands to hold, with a silvery dragon serpent wrapping around the stem and four talons equidistant around the base.

A fire burned in the stone hearth before him and Uncle Jerry. Between them on the floor lay the hide of some dead animal. Could be zebra. Could be a polar bear with a skin infection or terrible hygiene practices. Unclear.

The room stretched so high the ceiling disappeared into the darkness. Whispers betrayed you, scurrying and tumbling across the cold floor, selling your secrets to those hiding beyond the walls.

"I fucking hate castles," the Actor said.

"How can you hate castles?" Uncle Jerry said, sipping his mulled wine. He stared at his own goblet, which, to him, looked like a tusked boar with wicked scoliosis. After a glance at his friend’s cup, he wondered if this Induna guy had some goblet-of-the-month subscription.

"You know I spent seven bloody years on sets like this," the Actor grumbled. "Most were really the same castle on a soundstage. They'd just wheel around hearths and tables, toss in a few of those metal-men outfits in the corners, and, boom, new location."

"Metal men?" Uncle Jerry frowned. "You mean armor? Knight's armor? You ever get to wear one of them suits?"

"No. They don't make ‘em in husky-teen size."

Finally, one of the large sets of doors creaked open on the far side of the room. A very tall man followed two women. They all wore black fatigues and berets and carried automatic weapons. The Actor thought they might be AK-47s, but he didn't know an AK-47 from an AK-46 or AK-48, so they could have been anything.

However, that didn't make the pointy bang-bang sticks any less dangerous.

"My fine, fine actor,” the very tall man said. “At last, we meet in person. Although, I’ve been watching you for a very long time on the television.”

“I hope you’re a Nielsen family.”

The tall man paused briefly as he was lowering himself into his seat, which looked like a throne.

“No, my family name is Nemukula. I am Induna Nemukula.”

“Nice to meet you,” the Actor said, slugging the last of his wine. “My name is Hakuna Matata, and this is my valet, Istanbul Constantinople.”

The two guards raised their weapons, pointing them at the small man.

The expression on Induna’s face froze in the curve of a smile, which told the Actor he had really misread the room. He wondered if those lips hid razor-sharp teeth.

With a wave from the tall man, the guards returned the rifles to their hips.

“My guards are formidable, despite being only women,” he said. “I’ve had them trained constantly. For fighting, for incursions. For eliminating those who trifle with me.” He laughed and planted a foot upon a small upholstered stool. “But you have jokes! I like jokes.”

“Great! I’ve got one,” Uncle Jerry said, keen to lighten the mood. “What did the fried egg say to the fork as the monk began his breakfast?”

The two women standing behind Induna, as if on cue, took a step forward, and once again pointed their rifles at the two Americans. Uncle Jerry and the Actor raised their hands. Induna waved his fingers languidly in the air, his gaze remaining locked. His guards returned to their spots, weapons lowered.

Jutting his chin toward the older seated man, Induna said, “Finish your joke.”

Uncle Jerry said, his voice shaky, “I think a bit of pee came out of me.”

“Hmm,” Induna said. “I don’t get it.” He shrugged the moment aside. “As I said, for many years, I have been following your career as a performer. You did very well in your world of sword and sorcery.” He laughed, a deep baritone that rolled across the stone floor and echoed around them. “A king! Ladies, we are in the presence of a king!”

The two women behind him laughed loudly.

“This is why I hired you for my film,” Induna continued. “Three films, actually, here in Britain.”

“Thank you.”

“Three films you abandoned, of course.” Induna sighed. “One of my former associates had advised me against getting into the movie-making business, but it wasn’t the movie-making part that I was interested in.” He smiled, showing ivory-white and, also, perfect teeth. “Just the business.”

“Ah, well,” the Actor said, propping an elbow on his padded chair. “It’s a roll of the dice every time. You’re lucky to make your money back in a lot of cases.” He held up his goblet and shook it, raising his eyebrows to one of the black-clad women.

She scowled and looked at Induna. He gave her a very slight nod.

As quickly as the woman had vanished into the dark, she returned with a glass bottle topped by a cork, popped it, and filled the Actor’s cup. Uncle Jerry had held his own goblet up, but it went unfilled, so he rested it back on his lap.

“Yes, but you have complicated my business further by walking off all of those productions.”

“They were terrible.”

“Why did you take the work, then?” Induna leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “That is a contract between you and me. And three times, you have broken it.”

“It—I, I mean, I didn’t know…” the Actor said, unable to finish his thought. The cup in his hand shook slightly.

“And you would not have known. My name would have never appeared in the credits or on the posters that they hang in theaters.”

“You’re like one of them angel investors,” Uncle Jerry said, mostly just to be part of the conversation.

That comment brought the smile back to the man’s lips.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Listen, I’m sorry about those films, but really, I was doing you a favor,” the Actor said. “If they’d ever been released, you would have lost money, not made it. They were awful.”

“The movies of Adam Sandler are also awful but make very much money,” their host said. “Do you know Adam Sandler?”

“Of course,” the Actor said, unable to hide his frown.

Induna sat forward, his expression like a child’s on Christmas morning. “Can you introduce me? I would very much like to meet him because I think we would be very good friends. I would holiday with Adam Sandler and pay for all of it.”

“Well…” the Actor said.

“He could bring the ‘You can do it’ guy too. He is also very funny!”

Induna laughed and turned to the women behind him, who joined in with louder laughter of their own, both shouting “You can do it!”

“I don’t,” the Actor said through gritted teeth, “know him know him. I did meet him at a party once, years ago.”

“Oh, tell me. Tell me! What is Adam Sandler like?”

“I don’t… I mean, I only remember that he was loading up his pockets with cocktail sausages,” the Actor said. “But, no, Adam and I are not close friends.”

The tall man raised his hands, palms up, and nodded sadly. “Of course, he is a very big star. Global star.”

“Well…” the Actor said.

“And you are a fine actor too,” Induna offered. “I liked the one you did—”

“Don’t say the train one,” the Actor quietly pleaded.

“—with the train. You should do another train movie, very good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Uncle Jerry gave him a wicked smile. “You were very good in the train movie. One of my favs. Got it on VHS and DVD.”

The Actor let out a low growl, his face pinched into a harsh expression.

“This is all your fault,” he said, venom dripping from his lips. “All of this is your fault. I should have never—”

“Me?” Uncle Jerry said.

“Yes, you!”

“Enough! My friend, you are an actor and a relatively good one,” Induna said. “But you make a living from having people far smarter giving you things to say. Things that you could not have come up with yourself because, as it has been established, you are an actor.”

“Fair point,” Uncle Jerry said, earning a glare from his friend.

“So forgive me if I do not take business advice from you,” Induna said. “Yes, I am, in a manner of speaking, an investor. And I invest to make money because my business has a larger plan that requires it.”

“What plan?” Uncle Jerry said, instantly regretting his words. When he caught the expression on their host’s face, he added: “Your Honor, I withdraw the question.”

Induna stood and brushed some invisible dust from his pants. Standing over the other men, he looked down, the hearth’s fire dancing in his eyes.

“You owe me for these three films, this money I lost,” he said. “I have a new job for you.”

“Okay.”

“And you will do what I ask of you or… I will find another way to settle your debt to me, but since we are friends, I want to be honest. The alternative repayment would be most unpleasant. A terrible experience that would leave you damaged in ways you cannot comprehend.”

The Actor said, “Would that experience involve starring in an Adam Sandler movie?”

Induna was no longer in a joking mood.

“You will do this thing you can do,” he said. “I need you to act.”

“Why is it that the way you say it,” the Actor said, “makes it sound like an insult?”

Once again, the tall man waved the words away as if they were flitting bugs. He rounded the throne and leaned forward between the backrest’s two wooden stanchions.

“There is a movie being made here in Glasgow. What is called a buddy cop film,” Induna said. “You will be one of the buddies.”

“You’re offering him a job in another movie?” Uncle Jerry leaned forward. “Well, as his de facto manager, I can hammer out the details.”

Induna sneered at Uncle Jerry. “You are his manager?”

“De facto,” Uncle Jerry said with a grin that split his scruffy face. “Because of de facto nobody else wanna worth with him.”

One of the women behind Induna laughed, but a look from him cut her short.

“This is not a job in my movie,” he said. “It is a competitor’s production. Someone who is a thorn in my side.”

“If it’s already shooting, I can’t imagine—”

“They’re about to begin principal photography, and the two leads landed in country yesterday morning, but”—Induna shrugged—“seems like the actor you need to replace wasn’t in a very good place. A troubled man, he fell down an elevator shaft.”

The Actor’s voice turned hollow. “How did—?”

“He also stabbed himself in the back.”

Uncle Jerry rubbed his beard. “You don’t often find that sort of flexibility in your run-of-the-mill character actors.”

Induna stared at him for a moment, trying to work out whether the old pilot was being clever, ironic, or just moronic.

The old man saw his expression and mumbled, “Musta been a Pilates man.”

“My competitor has bankrolled this film himself and cannot make the movie without an immediate replacement,” Induna said and grinned. “You are that replacement.”

“How’d you arrange that?”

“I didn’t,” the tall man said, jutting his chin toward Uncle Jerry. “That is for you and your de facto man to work out.”

Induna turned and spoke low in a foreign language. One of his guards nodded and slipped into the darkness. The other stepped forward, motioning for the two of them to stand.

“I don’t get it,” the Actor said, getting to his feet. “You go through the trouble of sabotaging your competition’s movie only to give him a fix? How does that help you?”

The tall man sighed and slowly turned. “Because you will do what you do best. What you are good at.”

The dwarf shrugged. “Always. I am an actor.”

“No, not just act,” Induna said. “You will be in this buddy cop movie, and you will ruin it.”

The Actor’s mouth hung open for a few seconds before he could form words.

“Ruin it?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

INT. SACRAMENTO POLICE STATION - NIGHT (SHOOTING LOCATION: GLASGOW, SCOTLAND)

Police in various uniforms, some beat cops and others in plainclothes, mill around. The area is a hubbub of activity.

A prostitute with blond beehive hair and a pink wraparound skirt pops her gum.

Behind the desk sergeant’s station, an African parrot SQUAWKS, but no one seems to notice.

Just another day at the SPD.

INT. SPD, CAPTAIN STUBING’S OFFICE - NIGHT

CAPTAIN STUBING, a heavyset, grizzled man who looks like he shaves with a wire brush, stares down at an open file. His rumpled white dress shirt has faded brown stains that apparently refused to be “Shouted” out.

Across from him, his two best detectives, although this is not their best day.

CAPTAIN STUBING

(sighs)

This is the third dead banker in a

week. You can’t find a link?

FRANK, one of the detectives across from him, wipes his face with a meaty hand. There are scars all across the back of it. Stubing’s eyes flicker to them momentarily.

FRANK

We’ve been out all night. Working any lead we can find.

CAPTAIN STUBING

Work them harder, then! Somebody’s gotta

know something. Earnest, you grew up on the street,

for crissake. You got nothing?

Dead silence from EARNEST. Again.

The other two men wait. And wait. Both cast nervous glances at one another. We hear someone CLEAR THEIR THROAT off camera then read Earnest’s lines.

VOICE (O.S.)

The streets are usually looser than a

hobo’s ass. But we don’t even—

CAPTAIN STUBING

(covers his face with his hands)

I can’t act like this. I’m having a hard time

focusing here.

FRANK

Come on, man. Let’s just get through

the scene.

CAPTAIN STUBING

Jeff, it’s two a.m., and I gotta talk to—

Stubing gestures to Earnest, who is totally silent. Mainly because, currently, “Earnest” is a ficus. The real Earnest hasn’t arrived yet.

CAPTAIN STUBING (CONT.)

I mean we’ve been working with a goddamn

houseplant for three hours. Where is

our fucking star?

The DIRECTOR walks into frame.

DIRECTOR

He’s coming, babe. It’s fine. We’ll do his

cutaway shots later. For now—

FRANK

What “for now”? My Uber Eats has been sitting

in my trailer for three hours!

DIRECTOR

We’ll break for lunch—

FRANK

It’s almost time for breakfast!

CAPTAIN STUBING

Where’s that fucking manager of

his? Jerry! Uncle Jerry!

An older man in a blue tracksuit walks on set, holding a phone like it’s a bomb about to go off.

UNCLE JERRY

He’s just arrived. Coming through makeup.

DIRECTOR

(to Uncle Jerry)

You promised me we’d have no problems!

UNCLE JERRY

He’s fine. He’s an actor. They’re all

fruit-and-nut flakes, right?

Stubing and Frank glare at Uncle Jerry.

DIRECTOR

If I smell a single drop—

UNCLE JERRY

You won’t, man! He knows it’s an insta-fire if

he’s boozin’. It’s black and white in the contract.

He’s not. Trust me.

A voice calls from off camera.

DIRECTOR

Shit! Are we still rolling?

CUT!

Uncle Jerry looked down at his last text and tried to answer, but his words came out all garbled. His hands dripped with sweat.

“If he’s not on the set in five goddamn minutes—”

“Bruce, babe, totally cool,” Uncle Jerry said, looking down at his phone. “He’s coming out now. Just needed a touch-up.”

“Touch-up!” Bruce yelled. “He hasn’t been on set all day! What sort of touch…”

The words died on the director’s lips as he saw his star, his new Earnest, walk onto the set. As the Actor passed the set designers, playback engineers, sound mixers, they each, in turn, fell silent.

Uncle Jerry gulped hard, wiped his hand across his brow, and then walked quickly over to the Actor.

“See! He’s here!” Uncle Jerry said, his hand on his client’s shoulder, smiling the biggest grin he’d ever faked in his life. “Give the ficus back to the set designer—”

“I’m a green space coordinator!” An older woman with oversized pink gloves bounded onto the set to retrieve the Actor’s stand-in. “And it’s a weeping fig!”

“Ha,” Uncle Jerry said, his voice booming around the dead-silent set. “Well, I think they’ve got ointments for that, so…”

The circle of crew surrounding the two men was broken as the director slowly approached, his face a vision of horror.

“What in God’s name—?”

Uncle Jerry held up a hand. “And he smells like a rose. You can even piss test him if you like,” he said. “It’s in the contract.”

“I’m not taking a goddamn piss test,” the Actor said, adjusting his tricorn hat, which had already begun to chafe his hairline. Then he shot a brilliant smile at Bruce. “I’m ready for my close-up, matey!”

“You… what… I mean…”

“Yes, yes,” Uncle Jerry said and patted the Actor’s chest, rattling some of the chain loops and buckles. “We’re all good to go, and since we’ve got all the lights and cameras, let’s have a bit of action.” He spun around to look at the gawking crew, raising an arm and displaying a sweat stain the went from elbow to rib. “Am I right?”

“You are not,” the director said, his voice shaking, “wearing that!”

“Ah-ah,” Uncle Jerry said, holding up a finger. “His contract, of course, stipulates that he’s gotta be stone sober, and he is.”

“But,” the director said, unable to take his eyes off the Actor, “he’s wearing—”

“The contract also says our man has final say on his costume design, and you know actors… he’s just, you know, interpreting the character.”

Finally, Bruce exploded. “He’s a fucking pirate!”

And he was.

He was a pirate—from his three-sided hat to the patch emblazoned with a tiny skull and crossbones over his right eye. From the wooden strand of multicolored beads in his hair, down past the bushy black beard, and all across his bedazzled waistcoat, past the sword and scabbard at his belt, all the way down to his tiny black boots with tiny pointed toes.

The Actor shot a grin at Bruce, gold tooth sparkling in the klieg lights. “Ahoy, Brucey! Where’s my mark?”

The director slammed an open palm onto the Actor’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. “No, no. No way!”

“Checks out,” Uncle Jerry said, spinning his phone to the director. “Confirmed it with the contract lawyer and, sure enough, he can choose what he wears.”

“From the rack with his goddamn name and big, stupid goddamn face on it! He can’t go off—”

“He can,” Uncle Jerry said.

An assistant came out of nowhere, sidled up to the director, and spoke in a manner that, impressively, neither of the other two men could hear. She held up the Actor’s contract, which was open to the appropriate section, and stabbed her bony finger at a series of paragraphs as she spoke.

Slowly, the blood drained from Bruce’s face.

He muttered, “He can? It’s a fucking buddy cop movie. No one makes a swashbuckling buddy cop movie.”

Uncle Jerry steepled his fingers under his chin. “See? You’re already looking on the bright side. Creating an entirely new genre of film art. Like the Zucker brothers did for comedy. Or the Wachowski brothers did for science fiction.”

“Wachowski sisters,” the DA corrected.

The old pilot craned his neck back. “They were brothers when they made the film.”

“You can’t call them brothers,” she said, shifting from foot to foot. “I think that’s, like, uh, using their dead names.”

“Avast!” the Actor said with an exaggerated growl. “The Wachowskis are dead?”

“Uh, no.”

Bruce placed his index fingers on either side of his head. “Don’t talk anymore. You’re giving me a migraine.”

“Come on, matey! Let’s heave-ho—”

In one quick move, the director grabbed a Beretta .45 off the fake police desk and pointed it at the Actor. Then he pulled the trigger, again and again and again, emptying the clip.

The warble of chatter in the next room stopped. Through the glass, dozens of heads swiveled toward their conversation. Bruce stood there holding the smoldering pistol.

Everyone was silent, staring. The director stared down at the trembling gun in his hand. He looked at the DA.

“Can we get some real bullets in here?”

“Don’t have the permits,” the DA said. She stripped the gun away in a quick motion, spun it once, and tucked it behind her back into her belt. The pirate and the pilot raised their eyebrows at her.

“I’ll have to check the contract,” Uncle Jerry said. “But I don’t think you’re allowed to shoot the talent.”

“He didn’t shoot anyone,” the DA said with a snap. “Just blanks.”

The Actor said, “That’s how Brandon Lee met his maker, ya know.”

“He tried to shoot my client,” Uncle Jerry said, pointing at the director.

“Aye, and Jon-Erik Hexum,” the Actor added.

The DA held her hands up, trying to calm the room. “Okay, okay. No one’s dead. Everyone’s fine.”

“Except Brandon Lee,” the Actor said. “And Jon-Erik Hexum.”

“Don’t forget about the Wachowski brothers,” Uncle Jerry interjected.

“Sisters,” the Actor corrected.

Bruce slowly got to his feet and said, “Let’s just get this over with.”

INT. SPD, CAPTAIN STUBING’S OFFICE - NIGHT

CAPTAIN STUBING, a heavyset grizzled man who looks like he shaves with a Brillo pad, stares down at a file. His rumpled white dress shirt has faded brown stains that apparently refused to be Shouted out.

CAPTAIN STUBING

(sighs)

This is the third, uh, dead banker in a

week. You can’t find a link?

FRANK, one of the detectives across from him, wipes his face with a big hand. There are scars all across the back of it. Stubing’s eyes flicker to them momentarily.

FRANK

We’ve been out all night. Working any lead we can find.

CAPTAIN STUBING

Work them harder, then! Somebody’s gotta

know something. Earnest, you grew up on the street,

for crissake. You got nothing?

EARNEST

Aye, the streets are usually looser than a

bar wench’s cooch. But we don’t even—

FRANK

(looks off camera)

Did he just say “cooch”?

DIRECTOR (O.C.)

Keep going! Earnest, next line.

EARNEST

But we’ve got nothin’, Cap’n. Shiver me

whiskers, we’ve tried! She ain’t

givin’ up her ghosts.

Both Stubing and Frank stare for a moment, mouths hanging open slightly.

DIRECTOR

(walks onto set)

Can you just read the lines as—

An older man in a tracksuit follows the director like a bad smell, holding up a stack of bound pages.

TRACKSUIT

Uh, he is given latitude with some improv

and language. You can shoot it again, but—

(he taps his empty wrist)

—time’s a wastin’.

DIRECTOR

(growls)

We’re still rolling!

Tracksuit and the Director exit.

STUBING

All… all right, you two. Get back out there

and bring me some results!

FRANK

You got it, Captain.

EARNEST

Aye, aye, Captain!

In the silence, the parrot that was behind the desk sergeant flies over and lands on Earnest’s shoulder. A small bit of white liquid drops from the parrot’s behind.

Earnest smiles wide.

STUBING

Perfect.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Another volley of shots, all from different directions, obliterated the left side of the door leading to our hidden computer room. I sucked in a breath, and my mouth tasted like chalk.

Sally bent forward with a wracking cough, spit out a wad of plaster dust, then lifted her pistols to check her ammo load.

“Okay,” she said in a low voice. “I got an idea that might work.”

“Finally.”

“You go out there and ask them to stop shooting.”

“What?”

More bullets peppered the door, this time on the right side, and splinters rained down on me. Sally wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and then gripped my shoulder with a fist.

“They ain’t gonna shoot you, Raz.”

“They’re trying to shoot me now! See all those holes around us? Those are shooting-Raz-intended holes, for God’s sake! I’m not going out—”

“They can’t shoot you. It’s—” she started to say but then stopped. “Actually, they ain’t really supposed to shoot me, either, now I think about it.”

I looked at the laptop, surprised the thing had survived. On the screen, the tiny envelope flipped casually again and again, my name blinking through the dust. Was that a warning we never got to read?

“Listen, I’m just a driver. And a maid. And a cook but—”

“You’re a terrible cook.”

My mouth hung open for a moment. “How can you say that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, waving away my comments.

“It does matter! I made chimichangas. From scratch!”

She looked at me, her eyes slits. “Then why is there an Old El Paso Chimichangas box stuffed down into the recycling bin?”

“That’s bullshit!” I said as a few more shots flew over our heads. “Old El Paso doesn’t even make chimichangas!”

She frowned. “Ya just made their burritos and deep fried them. Same diff.”

At that moment, if I’d had a gun, I would… not have known what to do with it, frankly. I’d never held one in my life.

“Do you have another plan?” I said. “One that doesn’t involve me getting repeatedly shot?”

“Don’t be such a—”

Holes exploded on the walls in front of us, and she grunted. So much smoke arose I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. Had I seen my hand in front of my face, it would have been clasped to the other one, folded in fevered prayer.

Not that such a requisition would have garnered much help, given my recent vocational endeavors.

Sally crumpled back down to her knees and then arched backward, leaning on the inside wall. Through the haze, I saw a dark red patch growing on her belly.

“Oh, shit!” I said and clasped my hand over my mouth. “How are you bleeding? I thought…”

She sucked in a deep, watery breath. “It’s all fakakta. Christ on a cracker, that smarts.”

“Wait, wait,” I said. “How did…? They’re not supposed to… I mean, bullets—”

“Hellfire bullets,” she said and wheezed. “Thought I smelled something strange. Gonna start to get dark for me in here soon.”

“Come on, no way!” I said, my voice quivering. “You’ll be, you know, fine.”

Another dozen slugs spit trails through the smoke, and Sally rocked on her side toward me. The thup-thup-thup of Hell-borne lead pelted her back. She’d shielded me with her body.

Sally slumped back, smearing blood down the wall. She saw my facial expression, smiled, and waved it away. “No use in both of us going down.”

A queer expression passed over her face, and she placed one of her pistols atop her chest. With her left hand, she raised her middle finger, waved it briefly toward the Barton sisters, then put it in her ear.

Oh, right.

As a last resort, those working for the Downstairs could get a direct line back to their superiors by cupping a hand on the side of the head. This was a bit of a loophole in the ban on direct communication from Downstairs to up here.

You spoke into the palm of your hand and listened to the other side through the tip of your middle finger. This latter feature had earned this method of communication the colloquial designation “FU Mobility.”

I shook my head. “You’re making a call?”

“They changed up the rules,” she said and coughed up blood. “Gotta let the head office know.”

“This is not the time for phone calls!”

My cell phone rang. I slipped it out of my shirt pocket, blinked at the name on the tiny screen, and hit the green button.

“Anza?”

“Rasputin, oh, I’m so glad to hearing your voice,” my friend said. I’d missed her enduring terrible grasp on proper English. Her mistakes actually warmed my heart a little. “How are you going?”

“Oh, I’m pinned down in the back of Sally’s house with three Hell inc. assassins firing hellfire bullets, which, turns out, can kill us both,” I said. “How are things with you?”

I heard her sigh on the other end. “Not so good. Dan and me… it is very hard right now. For the two of us.”

“Well, you’re a demon and an angel, so…”

“He is not demon. He is only working for demon company,” she said, her voice strained. “And it seems these days, half the city is working for one side or the other.”

“Other other side or other other side, like you?”

I winced as a bullet shattered the laptop’s mouse tiny mouse pieces.

She said, “And I am not angel so much. The Upstairs are not happy with my living arrangement.”

“Well, you are, as they say, sleeping with the enemy.”

“No am I not!” she said, pain in her voice. “We sharing the same bed but no sleeping as you say. Only oral.”

“Bleh! What? Don’t say those things—”

“It is what it is,” she said. “Oral at night, oral in the morning.”

“Anza! I don’t need to hear—”

“Talk, talk, talk is all we do. Talking at night, talking at the counselor’s,” she said then quieted. “But lately there is less and less oral.”

“Well, you’ve, uh, been married a few years now. Just how it goes.”

“No, it cannot be how it goes,” she said, her voice cracking a little. “I was hoping you could come visit? It would be very nice to have you here.”

“I’m a bit tied down at the moment,” I said as a strange expression passed over Sally’s face. That was her “thinkin’” face, as she’d told me, so yeah, very strange.

I mean her thinking.

“After shootout with assassins, then?” Anza said, her voice brightening. “Dan would love to see you. Me too.”

I sighed and rubbed a spot on my chest. Months had passed since I’d seen them, and we’d spoken only a few times since going our separate ways. I wasn’t a very good friend.

“If I live, sure, Anza, I’ll try to stop by.”

“Okay! Sending love your way, Razzie,” Anza said.

I felt the joy, and yes, the love, come through the phone. Just the tone of her voice filled me, radiated through me, and I wondered if it had something to do with her whole angel thing.

I felt energized!

Did she do that?

I stuffed the phone back into my jacket pocket and looked over at Sally. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slowing.

“Hey, hey,” I said and shook her. Without opening her eyes, she grabbed her pistol and pointed it at me. “Okay,” I said. “Just making sure you’re alive.”

She coughed. “Yep. For now.”

I punched her lightly on the arm. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“We got gun-totin’ varmints trying to break into my casa, professional varmints at that, trying to kill me,” she said and blinked a few times. “I reckon that is the optimal time to be dramatic.”

Another volley of bullets above us. Plaster burst from what was left of the doorjamb. I leaned forward onto Sally to cover her, and a hail of concrete pebbles peppered my shoulders.

“No time to get sentimental on me now,” she said and shoved me off. “I ain’t a hugger. You know that.”

“Ugh, I wasn’t.”

“Were too,” she said. Wincing, she scooted back on her elbows to sit upright. “You’re definitely the wife in this scenario.”

“What? I am not the… and, listen, we no longer assign roles and traits to gender, Sally Scull. Nothing wrong with a guy having, you know, emotions and all that.”

She spun the cylinders on her pistols, checking her ammo.

“You’re definitely the skirt,” she said, chuckling, and a bit of blood bubbled onto her lower lip. “’Cept you can’t cook for shit.”

“You didn’t even try the chimichangas.”

Sally frowned at me, leaned forward into the beam of light, and fired three quick shots. When I looked out into the kitchen, the food on her plate had been obliterated. Red sauce, shredded cheese, and filling were splattered all over the wall.

A dust-covered bit of Tex-Mex rolled into the tiny room. She reached down and ate it.

“There,” she said. “Tried ’em. A bit doughy the way they…”

A window smashed, then another. Our assailants were all inside the house now.

She said, “They’re inside.”

“Right,” I said. “I just said the same thing in my internal monologue.”

She scrunched up her face and grimaced, pain deepening the lines of her face. I watched as she inched up the interior wall until she was standing again, leaving another crimson smear as she did.

“What did”—I whispered, pointing at her hand and wiggling my other hand’s fingers by my ear—“they say? Any help?”

“Voicemail,” she said, followed by a short silence then a loud crash. Sally poked her head out quickly. “They shot my TV!”

I yanked her back. “Do you have, you know, those special bullets like they do?”

“Sure. In the saddle bags on Horse,” she said. “No use to us now.”

She grunted, spun into the doorway, unleashed a primal yell, and fired randomly. I slapped my hands to my ears to dampen the thunderous, concussive roar that sounded like a battleship trying to take down a squadron of flying dinosaurs.

Empty, she spun back into the room, engaged the cartridges on either side of her hips, and reloaded.

I took a quick peek out into the living area.

The place was a war zone. The chairs had been upended, the couch looked like it had been attacked by a rabid beaver with a foam fetish, and, yes, the TV was smashed. I caught sight of one of the Barton sisters, who’d hidden behind a vertical beam in the living room.

When she caught sight of me, she grinned, brushed aside a single lock of white hair nestled into a black mane, and gave me a small wave.

I snapped back. “Holy shit,” I said. “She’s so cute.”

“Stuff it back in, will ya?”

“I’m just saying, you know, yeah, they’re assassins but, wow.” I chanced another peek outside and got a hellfire bullet in my shoulder. That hurt. Much more than the big guns at the door. And it didn’t let up.

“Burns, yeah?”

“It’s actually hurting more and more.”

“They do that,” Sally said, cocking both pistols. “She ain’t so cute now, is she?”

I put my hand to my shoulder and felt heat radiating from the wound. “Weirdly, it only makes her better-looking.”

Sally scowled at me. “You are a troubled individual.”

Again, she stepped into the doorway and fired. A dozen shots pinged wildly around the next room. When she was finished, she flopped back in, gritting her teeth.

In the next room, I heard a soft chuckle. “Ya missed.”

She even sounds cute, I thought. But I kept that observation to myself.

Chancing another look, I leaned about an inch past the destroyed doorway. The Barton girl with the cool-kid reverse-skunk hair was motioning to another sister on the other side of the room. Sally hadn’t hit any of them. Not a scratch.

But she’d torn up the room plenty. There were massive punches in the walls, up in the rafters, and the pole looked like my imaginary couch-eating beaver had gotten a hankering for wood.

“Thought you were some big badass gunslinger, Sally,” I said flatly. “If we ever get into a shootout with a house, you’d win hands down. But you missed, you know, the assassins!”

After Sally had finished reloading, her breathing getting more and more ragged, she looked at me with hooded eyes.

“This lead won’t do a thing to those girls except muss their shirts,” she said. Then she cocked her guns again and stepped into the doorway once more, filling our tiny space—already choked with dust and plaster—with thickening haze.

Twisting back into the room, I could see blood dripping off her elbows. She wouldn’t last much longer. One hundred and seventy years, and she was going to die behind a fridge.

I scanned our surroundings and said, “Is there any other way out?”

She gripped both pistols tight, ready to hit them with another volley of bullets, but I stopped her with a hand on her arm. For a moment, she looked ready to shoot me, but I didn’t let go.

“What’s the point of shooting if those won’t hurt them?”

Sally tugged her arm away from my hand and winced at the pain in her side.

“I ain’t shooting at them.”

Then she jumped out again, guns exploding, hitting walls, plaster, and a crossbeam. Her last two shots splintered the vertical pole, leaving just a strand about as thick as my wrist. In the reflection of my Escher picture, I could see the cute Barton sister jump back, spin, and go prone behind the couch.

“What’s the point…?”

A low rumble began to shake the house. The noise sounded a bit like an earthquake, which, of course, was impossible. The closest fault line was hundreds of miles to the south—we were in central California, not in Los Angeles County.

Sally watched the thoughts play over my face, grinned, and then loaded just one bullet into her pistol.

One.

“You got your runnin’ shoes on?” she said with her bloodstained grin.

“Run?” I said, my eyes darting around the room. What was that sound? If not an earthquake, then… a twister? In the desert? The entire ranch house was shaking. I caught a quick glance of one of the other sisters, who’d stepped into the kitchen. Her eyes widened as they cut from corner to corner.

Sally lifted her pistol, and I leaned into her, yelling over the rumbling, “Run? Run where?”

She nodded at the dark ceiling, raised her pistol, and without looking, aimed into the house.

“Over.”

Then she fired, and, in the glass reflection, I saw the last bit of the pole disintegrate and the rumbling grew into a long roll of thunder.

“What the, ooof—”

Sally shoved her shoulder into my chest, knocking the wind out of me and launching the two of us against the far back wall.

It felt like we were on a roller-coaster ride in some dodgy backwater carnival, the floor leaping and tossing us both around. I heard a crashing just outside the door and saw of two of the Barton sisters covering their heads as debris avalanched from the ceiling above.

Then came a succession of deep, loud cracks like cannon fire as the roof of the house came crashing down. From our vantage point, this display of smashing wood and falling concrete was framed by the door of the computer room as the ranch folded into itself.

A final wave of dust burst into the room, but when the seam between the house and the add-on split apart, sunlight burst in from above, and all the haze shot out into the gap.

The home looked like it had been demolished by a wrecking crew with anger management issues. The tiny anteroom, not a part of the house’s original design, was the only thing left standing.

We stared at the carnage through the broken doorway. Sally began to chuckle, spitting out blood.

“Who needs a television?” she said, pointing at the world of destruction that had been our home. “Now that’s a show!”

We weren’t dead. But my shoulder felt like I’d been injected with a big ACME cartoon syringe of lava that was trying to burn its way out. I felt Sally grip my jacket with one hand and lift me to my feet, and my eyes shot open.

Woozy, I said, “You’re strong.”

“We gotta skedaddle,” she said and pointed at the house.

Quickly, we climbed over the rubble and, more than once, had to avoid spitting gunfire from below the rubble. They were still shooting at us.

“They’re tenacious.”

“And pissed,” she said. “People don’t much like you dropping a house on top of them.”

Standing on top of the massive pile of splintered wood and busted concrete, I said, “Toto, we ain’t in Kansas anymore.”

“You hit your head?” Sally frowned at me.

“No, no,” I said and giggled. “That’s actually pretty good because, you know, dropping a house on someone and then—”

“Hush up, Razzie.”

I sighed. “I gotta get you to watch more movies. All my best stuff—”

She punched me in the shoulder, my bad shoulder, and I sucked in a breath so fast I took in a lungful of dust and probably two or three flies. Fighting the coughing fit, I let Sally drag me along the side of the rubble, and we hopped down to the ground.

Well, she hopped. I fell flat on my face.

Still, my face felt a hundred times better than my shoulder. Then I remembered that Sally had a dozen hellfire slugs in her chest and back.

“How are you even standing upright?” I said, climbing to my feet and pointing at the bleeding holes in her vest.

“Been shot plenty. You get used to it.”

“That’s not something people should get used to.”

“Let’s go,” she said.

When I started running toward the motorcycle, she grabbed my collar, yanking me back like a sprinting dog who’d forgotten he was on a chain.

“Stop that!”

“No time for the bike,” she said and began trotting, limping as she did, toward the highway. “We gotta get clear of the property.”

“Why?” I said, panic gripping me. “Why? What the hell’s going to happen?”

Between breaths, she said, “Well, for one, your Powerpuff Girls are gonna find a way to climb outta there. Despite my impressive resolve, I cannot take another of their bullets.”

I chased after her and shouted, “Where are we going then?”

She nodded ahead at the approaching blacktop. “My ranch has a ring of protection around it, prevents anyone Hell-affiliated from crossing the barrier.”

“Really? I think it’s broken! Because we just had three Hell inc. assassins inside your barrier trying to, um, assassinate us.”

“That is a quandary,” she said. “I got some questions.”

“Great,” I said, looking up and down the totally deserted highway. Behind us, I could see one of the sisters had finally slipped out of the wreckage of the home and was pulling out a second.

“And we need answers.”

“Fine,” I said. “Who do you think—?”

A black limo came screaming up the road at an impossible speed and stopped before us instantly, bouncing only slightly on its wheels.

Sally smiled weakly and said, “Home office. Got my voicemail.”

The back door of the limo popped open with a spark off the metal. When I spun back, I saw that the cute Barton had shot at us while pulling out the other sister with her free hand.

A deep voice from inside said, “Get in.”

We obeyed. The interior of the limo was dark and cool, and once the door closed, the desert outside turned black as deep space. Sally plopped down on the long couch and, wincing, propped her feet up. I had to sit on the fold-out jump seat.

At least no one was shooting at me.

The fat man leaned forward from the seat opposite Sally and frowned and grinned at the same time. He had that way about him, which I remembered from the last time we met.

“The Advocate,” I said bitterly.

“Yes, yes, wonderful to see you again, Rasputin, my weeping pustule. I’m not sure why you’ve taken up with such… disappointing company.”

I said, “I suppose—”

“I was not talking to you,” he said and turned to Sally. “Slumming it now?”

“No, just dyin’ here on your limo couch,” she said. “You might want to help plug the holes. You don’t want the bill for cleaning all my blood outta your upholstery.”

For a moment, the Advocate stared at her, drumming his fingers on his bulbous stomach. The previous year, I’d met the guy in this very same limo. He’d sent me on the trip around the world at the Old Man’s behest, in search of a lamp to save my wife.

I don’t trust him.

I said out loud, “I don’t either.”

The fat man snapped his head toward me. “Why would I send you the bill?” When he saw my expression of confusion, he waved his hand at me like he was shooing some pesky gnat.

“Look at her!” I shouted at him, my face flushed. “You guys are supposed to be the smart ones, right? I mean, you’ve been at this for thousands of years!”

The Advocate rolled his eyes.

“Millions, billions, gazillions, whatever,” I said. “Well, you suck at it. You’re playing by rules when the other side? They’re coming up with whole new ones! Smashing through your ‘barriers,’ gunning down your people. Y’all are a bunch of a morons.”

In the dark corner opposite the fat man, a skinny guy in an ill-fitting suit leaned into the light, his eyes dancing.

“You don’t know anything, Rasputin Frewer!” he said, bits of spittle flying off his lips. “You’re sitting across from a superior being. You should be kissing his boots—”

“That’ll be enough, Mr. Pendleton,” the Advocate said in a sing-song voice.

I remembered the weaselly guy too. Dude loved the fine print.

“I never worked for a dumber outfit,” I said. “And I worked in radio for a dozen years. You guys, though, take the cake. The other guys are playing chess, and you guys are using goddamn checkers!”

With a serpentine grin, the fat man said, “We invented chess. Very proud of that one.”

“Very high on the misery index,” Pendleton said smugly. “And ever evolving. Newer sets are made with one piece that disintegrates to dust in the box after a few uses. Disappears so you can’t find it. That ups the MX twelve percent on average!”

The Misery Index was what the entire Hell-centric tug of war was about.

As a whole, Hell’s agents on both sides spread misery to everyday people in various ways, big and small. From that pool of despair, so to speak, the side with the larger proportion of the MX ran the Downstairs. Right now, Hell had the lion’s share. Hell inc. wanted it so they could finally rule.

The Advocate squinted at me. “I don’t think Mr. Frewer is impressed.”

“Well, I hope you’ve got chess boards in your eighth dimension or whatever that is,” I said. “Because you’ll be there a long, long time with no way back.”

The partition between the back area of the limo and the front slipped open, and a face stared at me from the passenger seat.

“Oh, there are ways back. It just takes,” the man up front said, “perseverance.”

I swallowed hard.

“Hello, Rasputin,” the Devil said.

CHAPTER NINE

The last time I saw the Devil, he was being blasted into oblivion.

Of course, the Devil has many faces, but the one he chose to show me back then was that of Ralph Macchio, the hero of Karate Kid, Karate Kid Part II, Karate Kid Part III, and an old favorite film of mine called Crossroads. In that film, his character was a guitar player who’d dueled with Beelzebub.

But Ralph had not been the Devil in that film, so when the Old Man showed up with his ever-youthful face that day, I wondered if the actor himself was actually Satan.

This would have explained, in part, his appearance in the 2005 season of Dancing With the Stars.

Right now, he appeared as a different performer, one who had played the Devil. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if any of that mattered.

I frowned and said, “I loved you in Usual Suspects. Keyser Söze.”

The man with Gabriel Byrne’s face gave me a wry grin then shrugged. “Close. Not quite.”

“Usual Suspects,” Sally chimed in with bloodstained teeth. “That’s one of them movies you wanted me to see.” She nodded toward the man in the front seat. “He’s in it?”

“Not him. The actor Gabriel Byrne. It’s got one of the best endings Hollywood has ever churned out.”

Breathing heavily, Sally said, “Great. So few really good endings. If I live, we gotta watch that one first.”

The Devil grinned, blinked once, then looked at her. “In the final minutes, you learn the gimp is actually Keyser Söze. He was the whole time.”

Anger, sadness, and profound loss flooded through me, and I covered my mouth.

“You really are the Devil,” I said.

“Yes, and it seems your friend is bleeding all over my limousine. That’s leather, you know,” he said then added, “Not cowhide, mind you.”

Sally coughed, red saliva spurting from her mouth.

“Then help her!”

The Advocate cleared his throat. “We will need a full report of what happened at that hovel you call home. It seems there are discrepancies.”

“Discrepancies?”

“Yes, none of which matter to you, Rasputin,” the fat man said and grinned. “You’re an idiot. But for those who are—”

“It does matter to me!” I shouted, my voice ringing off the vehicle’s walls. “Our home is now a pile of rubble, and we just had three assassins try to kill us!”

“They may soon have gotten half the job right,” the Devil said, nodding at Sally.

I said, “Which was supposed to be impossible, right?”

“It’s a complication,” the Advocate said.

“That complication is bleeding out!” I said, throwing a thumb toward my friend. “What the hell is going on with you guys?”

The Advocate began to speak but then stopped, looked down at his sausage fingers, and turned slightly to his boss.

“Rasputin, you are… partially right,” the man with Gabriel Byrne’s face said. “The agreed-upon laws of engagement have broken down. But that doesn’t change that there is a war coming.” Strangely, he stared out the window for a moment. “Two, actually.”

Sally groaned and doubled over.

“Don’t care. You need to get her fixed up or I’m out. Done with this shit. I quit,” I said and watched their expressions. Over the past few months, I’d caught snippets of conversations, hints, and clues that somehow, I played a role in their plans. I was banking on that to save Sally.

The Advocate looked at the Old Man, who shrugged. Then the fat bastard slowly nodded. “We have another task for you.”

“Task?” I said.

“Job.”

“Job?”

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say as an interrogative?”

“Interdogganative?” I said, being an asshole, sure. “What are you talking about??”

The fat man sighed and muttered “hopeless” under his breath. He then turned to his boss again. “Sir, really? This is the man you want to—”

“Rasputin will do it,” the Devil said.

I frowned. “Do what? What are—” I stopped when Sally rolled off the couch and flopped to the floor. She was immobile.

“Help her!”

“First, we need your commitment to the job,” the Advocate said flatly. “You’ll like this one. It involves travel. You like travel.”

The Devil said, “The usurpers are taking out our lines of communication. Have taken out our lines of communication, trying to cripple us before the big showdown.”

“We need you to realign them,” the Advocate added. “Get them up and running again.”

I looked between the two of them.

“Your fucking phones don’t work?”

The Devil shrugged. “In a matter of speaking. But those disabled communication lines put us in a tricky situation. Vulnerable.”

Staring down at Sally on the floor, I thought once again of all the ways that working for the Old Man was unequivocally the worst idea in the world.

Slowly, I nodded and said, “Fine. Fix her.”

The Devil stared at me and said, “I have your word, then? You’ll do it.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, getting frantic. “I’ll try.”

“Do or do not,” the Devil said, grinning. “There is no try.”

“You have no shame,” I said. “And no regard for copyrighted material, obviously. Yes, I’ll do it!”

Gabriel Byrne nodded then inhaled and blew the breath toward Sally. Briefly, she lifted in the air, slowly spinning. She hung for a moment then shot back and landed on the sofa again.

In front of me, seven bullets that had been dangling in the air dropped to the limo’s floor, turned bright red, then evaporated, leaving only a black, inky mist behind.

Sally drew in a deep breath, blinked a few times, and said, “Ow.”

A moment later, I heard a thunk as the bullet that had been in my shoulder hit the floor and turned to mist like the others.

“You’re on the clock,” the Devil said then opened his door to the void outside and disappeared.

Sally turned to me, still a little weak. She said, “What in the blazes does that mean?”

The Advocate cleared his throat and nodded at his assistant. Mr. Pendleton leaned forward with a manila folder and opened it in front of me. Inside were four thumb drives.

“Here are your targets,” he said, his voice pinched. “At each location, you need to realign the satellite dish.”

“Satellite dish?” I said.

The Advocate sighed. “Oh dear, that is the most annoying of habits, you horrible little jism spawn.”

“Get over it,” I said. “What do I know about realigning satellite dishes? I’m a DJ, not a cable guy.”

“What were you saying about copyrighted material?”

“That was not a violation,” I said, holding up a finger. “It was an homage. Totally different.”

“Each of these drives is labeled with coordinates,” Pendleton continued. “Go to those locations and slip the drive into the computer controlling the dish, and it will do all the work.”

On each stick was a string of numbers. Coordinates. Something about the numerals tickled a part of my brain, but before I could focus, the Advocate snapped his fingers in my face.

“You have to go now,” he said. “You’re making the limo dirty.”

“Flash drives?” I said. “Are you joking?”

“Well,” the Advocate said, shifting in his seat. “We work on an older system. The usurpers—”

“Hell inc.,” I said.

“Not a fan of that term. It legitimizes them.”

“So does kicking your ass, it seems,” I said and grinned. “That makes them all kinds of legitimate.”

The Advocate fixed me with a stare. Tiny flickering flames danced in the dark pupils of his eyes.

“Oh… oh, I so look forward to when you no longer have your protections,” he said and licked his lips. “What fun we have in store for you.”

“Until then,” I said. I pocketed the drives, snapped the folder closed, and threw it like a Frisbee at Pendleton, clipping him on the chin.

“Razzie, what you got us into?” Sally said, the color coming back to her cheeks. Noticing the bar setup, she grabbed a bottle of whiskey and swigged it straight.

“I saved your life, Sally.”

“We all gotta die sometime,” she said between gulps.

I pulled the four finger-shaped drives out again and held them up. “These seem like they’re all over the planet. How are we supposed to get there?”

“You have a pilot,” the Advocate said.

“Had, yes. He’s in China or something. Last I remember.” Like with Anza, I hadn’t spoken with Uncle Jerry in far too long. “Been a while since we caught up.”

“Then catch up, Rasputin,” the Advocate said then rapped the roof with his ostentatious cane, a cue to some unseen driver. “If you can’t get those communication lines back up, I assure you, you’ll have far worse visitors than the Barton Sisters. It will be disastrous for the organization as a whole.”

The door next to Sally, the one she’d been leaning against, flung open, and she toppled out, ass over teakettle. Just beyond her heap of a body lay the remains of her ranch house. Our home.

Well, former home.

“Son-of-a-schvantz!”

That was my cue to leave, too, and I leaned forward then thought better of it and settled back. This earned me a sigh from the Advocate.

“Why me?” I said.

“We did just save your friend from expiring on our couch, didn’t we?”

“No, if this job is so important, then why don’t you send one of your lackeys?.”

He shrugged. “We are sending one of our lackeys,” he said and hit me with a full set of pearly whites.

Again, I said, “Why me?”

The fat man looked over at his scrawny helper, who gave him a slow shake of the head, rubbing a spot on his chin where I’d hit him with the folder.

“That’s not a concern of yours.”

“It is a goddamn concern of mine,” I said, my rage instantly spiking once again. “I’m the one going out there putting my neck on the line. There’ll be a target on my back!”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he said. “You are a nobody, Rasputin. It’s best you remember that.”

What a dick.

“What if this nobody decides he’s not interested anymore?” I said. “Sally’s fine, so I could—”

“She’s not fine. There were eight hellfire bullets in Sally Scull,” he smiled, enjoying the revelation so much it bordered on lewdness. “Now there’s just one.”

Oh hell no…

I inched forward, staring at the man’s flabby neck, flexing my fingers. “What did you just say?”

“A little incentive so you keep up your end of the bargain,” he said, brushing something off his lapel. “If you do not complete your task, that bullet will burn through her in the most delightfully horrible way.”

“How long?”

He frowned at the thought. “Your cowpoker is especially gifted with fortitude, not easy to kill.”

“True dat,” Sally yelled from the ground outside.

“You’ve got the better part of a month, plenty of time to do the job. But if you don’t,” he said with renewed vigor, “where she goes after that—well, she won’t be delivered into our hands. Sally’s killed so many of their agents, who knows what they will do once they’ve got her eternal soul?”

What a dick.

Without another word, I spun around, stepped out of the limo, and turned to find my friend. But I didn’t see Sally.

I didn’t see the destroyed ranch house anymore.

The desert, too, was gone.

In fact, everything was gone, and I was standing on nothing—looking into a black void, surrounded by empty space. My stomach dropped when I realized I was totally alone. No other person. No light, no sound, nothing. The bleak emptiness unnerved my very core.

“Rasputin,” a voice said. I spun around.

You know you’re in a bad place when you’re relieved to see the Devil’s face. “Gabriel Byrne, you scared the bejesus out of me!”

The Devil floated in front of me. He looked around briefly then locked onto a growing red horizon that had just come into view.

“I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Aren’t you immortal?”

“Yes, but you aren’t. And if I keep you here too much longer, um, life will forget about you, and you’ll cease to exist.”

I swallowed. “Quick chat, then, yeah?”

Gabriel nodded. “I have another task for you.”

“You guys need to hire freelancers.”

“We have freelancers, but they’re mostly in accounting,” he said quickly. “There is a war coming.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Not like you’ve heard,” he said, cutting his eyes to where he’d been looking before, somewhere beyond my shoulder. “At each of the locations, you will find some vital information, but no one can know you are obtaining it.”

“Okay.”

“It…” the Devil said then hesitated. He appeared to be weighing options, but when a low rumble began to emerge behind me, he got to the point. “At each location, you will be given a name. However, I must stress it is imperative that you keep that to yourself.”

“Why?”

“It’s not important.”

“Why do people keep telling me that?” I said. “It’s frustrating.”

“Listen, Rasputin Frewer!” the Devil shouted, sending a white-hot electric shiver through me. “Sorry, I think I took two years off your life with that.”

“What?”

“Maybe three, but it’s not important.”

“See? Hate that.”

“Names are more powerful than you know, and these… Just keep them to yourself. But it’s imperative we have them,” he said. Again, he threw a glance behind me. He furrowed his brow and frowned. “Only give that information to me. No one else.”

“Why?” I said then put a hand up. “No, no, don’t tell me. It’s not important?”

“Exactly.”

“Whatever.” I turned away. Then I saw a fat ribbon of fire, like a tsunami of molten lead that scorched the horizon from one end to the other, growing larger and larger. But that wasn’t even the oddest part—in front of the surging wave were things. Charging toward us. “What the fu—?”

I felt an ice-cold hand on my shoulder, and the Devil spun me back.

“And most importantly, they cannot see you.”

“Who?”

“The people on the list of names,” he said, eyes again flashing to the horizon behind me. “You cannot let any of them see you.”

“Are they going to be there?”

“I can’t imagine they would be, no,” he said, lost in thought. “Realign the communication network and get those names. Go!”

“What the hell is this all about?” I said and grinned. “Lemme guess, it’s not—”

“If you don’t succeed, every man, woman, and child on this planet will die.”

CHAPTER TEN

The Hooded One sat at his computer, one of seven in his office high atop the Friendbook headquarters in northern California. The lights were low, soft music played in the background—some Ed Sheeran track—and he had his pants around his ankles.

“You just need someone to listen to you,” he said, staring into the pinhole camera on his laptop. “I mean not just listen. Hear you.”

The middle-aged woman in the chat window on his screen put a hand to her mouth.

“I have been saying exactly that to my bestie!”

Hood looked over at the metadata scroll in the digital box next to the woman’s face. The scroll ran through a series of conversations she’d had with her friends, family, and husband.

“You’re a creative soul, Angela.”

“Pamela.”

“Ah, right, I mean that as… Pamela the angel,” Hood said, pleased with his quick recovery. “So, Angela. How about—”

“Mr. Hood.” Another chat window popped up, interrupting his flow.

“Is there someone else there?” Angela said, quickly refastening her top button. “I’m not into three-ways.”

“No, no, it—”

“Mr. Hood, I need to talk with you.” Don Lime’s eager face popped into view, now side by side with Pamela’s look of consternation. “It’s important.”

“Always something more important than me,” Pamela said. She clutched her shirt then clicked her camera off.

“Goddammit!” Hood said, rolling his hands into fists. “I was nearly there!” He hit a key on the laptop with his thumb, expanding his view of the reporter to full screen. “What is it?”

“It’s Rasputin Frewer.”

“Great,” Hood said, shading his eyes. “And the lead leaveth the pencil.”

“Uh, yeah,” Don said, his eyes briefly going left and right. “The Central Cali director went rogue and had a kill squad track the guy down. Pinned him at some ranch house in California.”

“Wait, what? I thought Rasputin was ‘untouchable’ or some other bullshit.” His hands glistened as he made air quotes.

“Bullshit is right,” the reporter said. “The district manager for the region was not going to allow it, but they got around that and carried out the mission anyhow.”

“Rasputin is dead?”

“No, unfortunately. They dropped a house on the Barton sisters and got snatched up by one of Hell’s stretch limos before our crew could finish the job.”

“I’d heard the Old Man was back,” Hood said, nodding. “If they had a meet with their top brass, they’re up to something.”

Don Lime leaned toward his camera, scowling. “Rasputin needs to go.”

“Yes, but… maybe. Maybe.” Hood leaned forward, resting his chin on his fingertips. “Find out what he’s up to.”

“Copy. Then what?”

“Then tell me!”

“Yes, of course,” the reporter said through a million-dollar smile. “What will you do then?”

“Words, words, words,” Hood said dismissively. With a click, the reporter’s face winked away from the screen. Just as Hood was looking to message the woman he’d been speaking to moments earlier, he saw a burst of flame to his right, a ring of fire.

“For the love of…” he said.

Hood sighed and turned in his chair as the flickering head of Steve Janus, five feet tall and surrounded by flames, was projected above the Call Cauldron.

“Why can’t I see him?” Janus scrunched his face up, squinting. A voice on the other end chattered in the background. “No, no, I can’t. It’s just a tangle of wire or something. Looks like a rusted, frayed Brillo pad with a shriveled gherkin in the middle.”

Hood’s eyes widened, and he jumped up and snatched his kimono from the nearby couch. Wrapping the tie around his waist, he sat back in the chair. For the briefest moment, he considered bolting from the room to avoid the conversation.

But if Hell inc.’s CEO ever learned that his number two had bailed from a meeting deliberately, it could be a trip Downstairs. Maybe permanently.

“Here, sir,” the head of Friendbook said with a pitiful wave.

The giant head squinted at him. “Why are you dressed like Hugh Hefner?”

“It’s just a robe, sir.”

“I don’t like to talk to people when they’re freeballin’. Bit of a rule. Always has been. Even back when I was—”

Hood muttered under his breath. “The head of Baby Gap.”

“—the head of Baby Gap. You never know when an errant willie might pop out and throw everything into chaos.”

“I’m dutifully tucked, sir.”

“Keep it that way,” Janus said. “What’s this I hear about that Rasputin Frewer being targeted by a kill squad?”

“Just tying up some loose ends. Not my doing, one of the—”

“Control your people, Hood!” Janus said and ran his fingers through his thinning gray hair. “He still with that eighteenth-century gunslinger?”

“Nineteenth, I believe.”

“What’s the difference?”

“About a hundred years,” Hood said. He quickly added, “And, yes, he’s driving for Sally Scull, who, by the way, just took out one of our operatives in a flying-squirrel debacle.”

“What? What does that mean? We have squirrels working for us?”

“No sir.”

“Don’t want squirrels working for us, Hood! Can’t trust them, very shifty eyes.”

“That’s not—”

“After that mess in Iceland, we’ve got a blanket no-rodent policy. No squirrels, chipmunks, or prairie dogs… and mountain beavers are on notice!”

Hood sighed. “Won’t happen again, sir.”

“Fine, good. Leave Rasputin alive for now,” Janus said. “But kill the gunslinger.”

“I thought she was technically untouchable.”

“Intel says she took out some Aussie named Digger, one of our protected, so deal’s off with her.” Janus said. “She’s too dangerous, and war is coming, Hood. Your job is to make sure she’s out of the picture.”

Hood frowned. “But not Rasputin?”

Janus grinned wildly. “If you take out the legs, the body cannot move.”

“Right,” the Friendbook boss said. “So she’s the legs?”

“Yes!”

“Isn’t he the driver? Wouldn’t that make him—”

“Don’t confound the analogy with facts!” The massive head wobbled as the video feed rolled. “I want them stopped at any cost. Take out Sally Scull.”

“Got it.”

The big head leaned forward, looking down, seemingly to switch off the transmitter. “No, no. Two! Two jobs.”

“Sir?”

“Kill the gunslinger and get rid of the damn squirrels,” Janus said, glowering at the camera. “No more squirrels. Can’t be trusted.”

Hood nodded with a smile, which fell the moment the screen went dark.

Then he smiled again.

“He did say ‘at any cost.’”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dr. Harriet stared down at her notepad, tapping a pencil on her lip. She’d long since chewed off the eraser, and Anza wondered if the woman had swallowed it.

As an educated intellectual, Anza knew that talk therapy had its merits. Many who’d undertaken it saw personal growth that helped them overcome differences in a troubled relationship.

Are we troubled?

Sure, they had their differences, but those were mainly down to being two spirited, passionate people. The angel-and-demon thing was, they felt, a very small part of their challenges.

For her part, the psychiatrist continued to look at the numbers. In a few weeks, she might be able to put a down payment on a summer home. Only time would tell. The man sitting across from her cleared his throat, so she smiled and set her pad facedown on the small table.

“We could try a little word association,” she said with a practiced smile. She’d paid about forty-seven thousand dollars for that practiced smile, so it was a pretty good one. “Anza, when I say the word ‘Dan,’ what’s the first thing that comes to your mind?”

“Selfish.”

“Okay, how about something more positive?” The doctor’s smile wavered.

“Very selfish.”

Dr. Harriet took a deep breath and exhaled through her nose. Then she tried again.

“How about you, Dan? When I say ‘Anza,’ what do you—”

“Lovely. And smart,” he said.

Dr. Harriet beamed. “See? Anza, try—”

“Manipulative!”

“No, no,” the woman across from them said. “Let’s be positive.”

“Very manipulative!”

The doctor grabbed her notebook again. Maybe if I sell the Jeep? Jimmy’s seventeen now. He should learn about public transportation. Then she looked at the couple across from her, but before she could come up with a new tack, the angry woman spoke.

“He is always with saying things to mess with my head!”

“Can we do it,” the doctor said, “without the shouting?”

“Yes, he do with shouting, with soft words, when he is trying for the back door.”

“Uh, back door?”

“Yes!” Anza said. She jumped up and paced the room. “Trying to sneak around with his words and he is saying one thing but meaning another.” She raised her fists. “My husband is gasbagging me.”

Dr. Harriet frowned. “Gaslighting?”

“Also that!”

“Please, please, Anza,” the doctor said in a calm, soothing voice. “Sit down. I hear that you’re angry—”

“The block over can hear she’s angry,” Dan mumbled.

The counselor glared at him. “Listen, I know you’re upset, doll, but we won’t get anywhere if we’re always going to frame this as, I don’t know, you’re the angel and he’s the devil.”

“No, not the devil,” Anza said, dropping into her seat and crossing her arms.

“Good.”

“Demon.”

Harriet sighed.

Anza dropped into her seat, her voice rising again. “I am no joking on this, in fact—”

“Ixnay, ixnay,” Dan said, cupping his hand around his mouth.

Harriet stood and grabbed a book off the shelf behind her. She spun back, set the book on the desk, then beamed and pointed at the tome. “Homework for you two.”

Dan leaned forward and read the cover.

“Tantric Sex, Party of One?”

“No, whoops.” The doctor arched forward and snatched up the book, replaced it on the shelf, grabbed a different book, and returned once again. She handed this new book to the husband.

He said, “How to Argue.”

“Yes! The root of the problem with many couples, or at least the roadblock getting in the way of fixing problems, is how they communicate. Especially when arguing.”

“Oh,” Anza said, smiling for the first time. “We are very good at arguing.”

“Right, I hear you. But do you come to some agreement at the end of all that heated debate?”

“Yes,” Dan said. “That somehow I’m wrong.”

Anza nodded. “I think this is working for us.”

Dan slid the book down the side of his seat. He looked at his wife and gave her his best smile then looked back at Dr. Harriet.

“Listen, we’ve been coming here for about five weeks—”

“And you are making progress, Dan.”

He frowned. “No. No, we are not.”

“I agree,” Anza said. “You are a not very good shrink. A moment ago, you tried to give us a wanking book.”

Dan squeezed her hand. A silent moment passed between them. They both stood.

“I appreciate everything you’re trying to do. It’s been great,” he said. “But I think my bride and I need to spend some time remembering why we fell in love in the first place. That thing at our core, you know. Then strip away all the other stuff and rebuild from that foundation.” He looked at his wife. “A foundation of love, deep respect, and the desire to spend the rest of our lives together.”

He smiled at the counselor.

She looked at Dan.

Then she looked at Anza.

“Well, good luck with that,” Dr. Harriet said. She burst out laughing, seeing her summer home slip away into the distance. “Where the hell did you get a bunch of bullshit like that?”

“It’s from one of the brochures in your lobby.”

“That is another thing,” Anza said, squeezing her husband’s hand tighter. “All of your magazines are very old and torn and have schmutz on them.”

“Schmutz?”

She beamed. “Is a good word I learned from my friends.”

Dr. Harriet crossed her arms and stared out the window for a moment. Forcing herself to smile, she said, “I’m going to be honest with you. I… really don’t think you guys are going to make it.”

Anza frowned. “This is your professional opinion?”

“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Good,” she said and headed to the door, pulling Dan behind her. “Then I feel much better about our chances.”

The door closed with a slam. The counselor sat and stared at the door, her mouth hanging open slightly.

“Sonova—”

Then the door cracked open slightly. She saw the top of Dan’s head, nothing else.

“Hey, Doctor,” he said. “Any chance I can borrow that other book?”

“No!”

His head disappeared again, and he was gone.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Kiwi reporter shifted uncomfortably in her folding chair, trying again to get the handheld voice recorder to work. The Actor’s smile had dimmed over the past few minutes. When he’d first gotten off the phone with an ecstatic Induna, a wave of relief had passed over him.

Frank & Earnest had finished filming, and a cursory edit was completed in record time, better measured in hours than days. And the final product was awful.

Sitting in the bowels at the only theater in the world showing the disaster, his actions over the past few weeks hit him hard. He’d ruined the film, sure. But he’d also destroyed any chance of working on another production again.

What have I done?

“I think I got the batteries in wrong,” the woman said in a thick New Zealand accent. Actually, he wasn’t sure whether it was “thick” or not, just difficult to fully understand.

“We’ll be sweet as in just a tick,” she said.

“‘Sweet as’ what?”

“What?” she said, tip of her tongue jutting out between her lips, as she tried to force the battery compartment cover back into the device.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Only a small-time New Zealand chain had bid for the film. So now, he was sitting in a soda-room-turned-dressing-room at the back of a theater in Auckland.

The reporter had finally gotten her recorder to work. She pushed the button, and a little red light came on.

After a few pleasantries and getting him to say and spell his name for the record, she got into the meat of the interview.

“Well, congrats on your new film. It’s a cracker!”

“Cracker,” he said. “Is that good?”

“Yeah,” she said, drawing the word out into two syllables.

The Actor’s smile wavered. “You’ve seen it?”

“No,” the woman said, studying her hands. “The film company canceled most of the advance screenings. Ours included. Never really heard of that before.”

“Ah.”

“Now, there has been some very early press, but—and I hate to bring it up—it hasn’t been, you know, glowing.”

“Well, as you say, no one’s really seen it yet.”

“A few have.” She pulled out a notebook and read from it. “‘The worst eighty-five minutes of dog shit ever put to film.’”

“Ah well,” the Actor said, trying to keep the smile on his face. “Well, critics, right? What do they know?”

“That was from your director. Bruce.”

“Ah.”

“But, I reckon,” she said with a grin, “that’s just a ploy to get everyone to watch it. Am I right?”

The Actor waggled a finger at her, forcing his facial muscles to keep the smile. “Hard going, though, being that we’re now only showing in this country.”

“Oh, exclusive showings! We don’t normally get that down at the ass end of the world!” The reporter beamed. “Feels pretty special, mate.”

“What would feel really special right now is a boatload of caffeine. Anywhere I can get a Mountain Dew around here?”

“Oh, Mountain Dew! We’ve seen that on the telly—Ross from Friends, yeah? He loves the stuff. It’s fuel for funny, I reckon.”

“Sure,” the Actor said, massaging his temples.

“So…?”

“Don’t have any, mate,” the reporter said, still beaming. “Hasn’t made its way down here. We’re told we’ll be getting a Taco Bell, though, in the next few years. The future is now!”

“Great. How about a Red Bull?”

“Aw, yeah, same diff, right? Not here yet, but we’ve got a local swill called V!”

“V?”

“Yeah, it’s the same as Red Bull,” the reporter said. “In fact, heard a rumor that it is Red Bull, but we don’t got the licensing, so they just get a bunch of the cans of the good stuff and pour it into some big vat or something then put it in V cans for twice the price.”

“That’s, uh, legal?”

“Who’s gonna know? Ass end of the world, mate!” She checked her watch. “Ah, bugger. Your movie starts in five minutes, and I don’t want to miss it. Can we pick this up after the showing?”

“Absolutely,” the Actor said, not meaning it. He’d instructed Uncle Jerry to get them the first flight out the moment the film began. “Can’t wait.”

With one quick motion, the reporter swept her notebook, phone, recorder, and a jumbo-sized box of some local candy called Jaffas into her bag.

“I wanted to get a good seat, but I think I’ll end up getting something in the first few rows,” she said. “The entire auditorium is filled.”

“Really?”

“Well,” she said, reaching for the door, “it is the smallest theater in the complex, but I don’t want that to discourage you. Locals are very excited to have a big Hollywood star hanging about. I’ve heard you’re going to do the welcome speech.”

“Yes, yes. Forgot about that.”

As she reached for the handle, the door flew open. She jumped back with a yelp.

Uncle Jerry stood in the doorway with a bottle of Jameson, grinning from ear to ear.

“Time to celebrate, man!”

He had his arms raised, so the reporter snuck underneath one and disappeared into the darkness. Uncle Jerry kicked the door closed then put two glasses on the small table next to the Actor.

“I can use that,” the Actor said. “I think that’s the longest I’ve gone without a drink since I was nine.”

“It was a week!” the old pilot said. “For a five-week shoot, you guys flew through it.”

“Eleven days, actually,” the Actor said, watching the brown liquid fill the glass. He snatched his up and finished it in one gulp. “You do tend to speed up the process when you only do one take for every scene.”

Uncle Jerry laughed and plopped down in the same chair the reporter had sat in. He frowned. “Seat’s still warm. Always feels a bit weird, like somehow, I’m sittin’ in someone’s filth.”

“Just pour.”

“Why the long face, short man?” Uncle Jerry said, filling the glass. He grabbed his own and took a sip, letting it warm his body. “You did it!”

“I did it.”

“This is a good thing, right?”

“Is it?”

“It’s good Induna ain’t gonna bury us in the desert somewhere,” Uncle Jerry said and shot a quick glance at the door. “I asked around a bit inside the industry. He’s not known, new to the game, but the word is that he’s some—get this—warlord out of South Africa.”

The Actor stopped mid-gulp. “Who makes movies?”

“Don’t matter because he’s got to be happy how this all turned out,” Uncle Jerry said. He finished his glass. “The film’s a total shambles, man.”

The Actor stood up, grabbed the bottle from his friend, and tilted it back to his mouth, taking three long swallows. He then filled his glass, some of the liquid spilling over the top, and sat down again.

“Any, you know, prospects on the horizon?” the Actor finally asked. “Anything?”

“Ah, fickle industry, right?” Uncle Jerry said, gazing at his hands. “It’ll be slow going for a while. Bruce was good on his word and spread it around that you were impossible to work with, destroyed his film, worst actor ever, blah, blah, blah.”

“Jesus, that bad?”

“It’ll blow over.”

“When?”

“Give it a few months,” Uncle Jerry said, trying to smile. “Maybe longer.”

“Years?”

“Maybe longer.”

The sound of someone smacking a baked ham against the door filled the room. A large man poked his head in.

“Um, sir? They want you to do the welcome speech now,” he said then his face fell when he caught sight of the Hollywood actor. “Oh, I… well, we were all hoping you’d, you know…?”

The other two men looked at each other, waiting.

“Just since we got a big star here in town, his big movie,” the large man said, shifting from foot to foot, “we were only hoping you’d be, um”—he gestured to the Actor’s robe—“a wee more piratey.”

Sighing, the weary man looked over at his duffel bag, which was nearly bursting at its seams. The luggage looked to him like a massive cat turd except for the spot where his costume sword poked through the side.

With a swing of his arm, the Actor unzipped the bag, jabbed the other hand inside, and then strapped on his eye patch with a weary smile. “Ready to get this over with.”

“Uh, you’ve… you know,” the man said pointing at the Actor’s face. After getting no reaction, the large man added, “The patch is supposed to be on the right, yeah? You gotta watch out when Earnest switches the patch from right side to left because that’s when the shooting starts, yeah? ‘Beware the Dead Eye of Dread Pirate Earnest!’”

The Actor blinked with his right eye, staring at the man.

“You’ve seen the film?”

“Yeah,” the large man said then lowered his voice. “Don’t tell anyone, but we got it last week, and we’ve been holding midnight showings after the bosses passed out drunk.”

“Midnight showings?”

“Well, nine p.m. showings,” the big man said sheepishly. “The city pretty much closes up around six, so nine p.m. is like our midnight, I reckon.”

“Ah.”

A muffled voice from the dark called down the cluttered hallway.

“They need you now, sir,” the large man said. He slipped back out the door, leaving it open a crack.

Uncle Jerry watched his friend, unsure how to improve the situation.

“Listen, we’ll work it out, man,” he said. “One day at a time, right? Today, we ain’t gonna die. That’s a good day in my book!”

The Actor stood, slowly slipping on the rest of his pirate outfit. “You need a new book.”

A few minutes later, he stepped toward the door, grabbed the bottle, and spun off the cap with a flick of his thumb. The bottle cap tumbled somewhere beneath the stacks of discarded beer boxes. Uncle Jerry called after him, but the Actor ignored it as he shuffled through the dark, sticky darkness in front of him.

What have I done?

He’d always played off acting like it was a lark. Take it or leave it, who cares? But it was all he had. And he had been good at it.

A skinny young man in a headset too large for his head stood at the edge of the stage, clutching the curtains in his hand.

“You got curtains?” the Actor said, slurring slightly, as he stepped up. “In a movie theater?”

“Well, yeah,” the man said in an even stronger Kiwi accent than the reporter had. “Local high school comes down to do their winter play in the off-season.”

“Great.”

“Fancy, yeah?”

“Great.”

In the pitch black, a thin blade of light played between the two long bolts of fabric as the Actor stood, wobbling on his feet slightly, waiting to step out into the tens and tens of adoring fans. The whiskey had gone to his head. A roar battered his skull.

As he placed the bottle on the floor, he realized the sound wasn’t coming from his own head.

He heard a loud noise that sounded like some college football game. Where was that coming from? A football game wouldn’t happen at the same time, would it? Why would they do that?

Such disrespect.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself. “‘Football’ here is soccer. They don’t have football. Heathens.”

The skinny attendant gripped the edges of one of the curtains.

“You want a football?”

“No, no,” the Actor said, taking another swig of his bottle. “Let’s get this over with.”

“You got it,” he said. “Knock ’em dead, Dread Pirate Ernest!”

Then the man yanked back the curtain.

The Actor just stared.

Yes, it was a small theater, maybe two hundred seats, but every single one was filled.

Every.

One.

People were also sitting in the aisles. Several dozen folding chairs blocked the fire exits.

When the spotlight hit him, the theater burst into a flood of applause.

A short woman with a wireless microphone appeared out of nowhere, waving at the crowd. She pointed at the Actor, then, clapping with a live mic in her hand, a thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk sound shot diamond shards into his already pounding head.

“You lot are safe for the moment,” she said into the mic. “But you know what happens when that patch moves from right to left!”

The entire crowd shouted, in unison, “Beware the Dead Eye of the Dread Pirate Ernest!” They burst into cheers and more applause.

She was a short, squat woman but still a few inches taller than the Actor. When she came over, she grabbed his hand and held it aloft like he’d just won a prize fight. Then she leaned in, talking over the cheering crowd.

“You’re a local hero, mate,” she said. “The staff have been holding midnight showings of your film. Well, not actually midnight, because—”

“I’ve heard.”

“Right,” she said, now yelling over the din. “But you haven’t heard that word got around. By the second night, we had every seat filled. By the third, they pulled out the folding chairs.”

“What?” the Actor said, his eyes losing focus. “What are you talking about?”

“Funniest goddamn movie I have ever seen, mate!”

“It’s a buddy cop movie, not a comed—”

“I reckon you got a winner on ya hands,” she said. Then she handed him the mic and left him alone on the cramped stage.

The Actor looked down at the microphone like she’d handed him the entrails of an unruly farm animal.

What is going on?

He stepped forward and, finally, saw the crowd—or, rather, how they were dressed. Many were in just their casual day clothes, but the rest—nearly half!—looked as though they’d raided every secondhand store and costume shop in town.

Pirates? Why are they…?

Then he looked down at his own outfit. The cheering slowly died down, and all the faces turned to him, beaming, smiling.

He pulled out his notes. With his mic in his right hand, he couldn’t see his notes in his left. He switched his eye patch to the other side.

The theater bellowed, “There he is! Dread Pirate Earnest! Dread Pirate Earnest!” The place went mad. Cheering, laughter, hooting. Yes, there was actual hooting.

Even with just the one eye, the Actor couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He heard a few people yelling something. He couldn’t quite make it out, then it became louder.

“Say it!” the shouts came. “Say the line! Say the line!”

What?

Then he thought back to the filming of the movie. The line? What was it he’d said when he moved the patch? Oh. Oh yes.

He said into the mic, “Shiver me whiskers?”

Unbelievably, the crowd cheered louder, ecstatically. Then, in a fit of lunacy, empowered by a love he never thought he’d feel again, he said it again, this time shouting and leaning in with a piratical growl.

“Shiver me whiskers!”

They loved it.

They loved him!

And they loved this movie.

When that final thought hit him, his smile began to fade.

What have I done?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The darkened sun was a strange, elongated gash above the horizon that bled deep red across the sky. My hands buzzed from holding onto the speeding motorcycle as best I could.

But the sky was what gripped my body with an unsettling electric hum.

Sure, it would only take us maybe twenty minutes to get to the Gulf Coast of Mexico in Mexico, but my perception of time was totally out of whack. Twenty minutes to us, but how had time passed outside of the confines of the bike?

These are thoughts beyond me, sure.

But my mind was still trying to process the events, just hours earlier, after the Old Man shoved me out of that inky void.

Standing at the edge of our property, the dilapidated ranch house had been gone. Every trace of it.

“Wha-what’d you do with our home?”

Sally had spun around on a heel, guns leveled at me as usual, then scowled and holstered them just as quick.

“’Bout time you showed up.”

I walked in a wobbly circle. “Are we…?”

Boo was sitting just outside his little secure garage. Its handlebars twisted toward me, and the headlight blinked in a quick succession. The phenomenon pulled a smile from me, and I waved.

“You go on vacation or something?” Sally said, sounding pissy. “I had to clear all this myself.”

“I don’t—”

“But your timing is right on brand, I reckon,” she said and spit into the sand. “Now all the hard work is done.”

“Wait? How long was I gone?”

She turned from me and walked back to where some workmen were setting up a foundation for Casa de Sally II.

“Sally?”

Ignoring me, she shouted at the guys in broken Spanish, and a heavyset man in a sweat-stained shirt waved at her. He then called to his crew, and they all dropped their tools where they stood and ambled toward a long trailer to get a break from the heat.

I walked up to her, and when I got within a few yards, she spun back to me. It must have been the heat, but it looked like her eyes were watery.

“Sal?”

“Feh, I don’t wanna hear none of your excuses,” she said and rubbed her face. “I reckoned you just took off like everyone else does. Fine by me. I’m used to folks abandoning me.”

“I didn’t…” I struggled to pull the right words into my brain. “Took off? I didn’t! We’re pals, yeah?”

“Pals don’t disappear like that!”

Pulling her out of her funk had taken a while, and in the end, she’d warmed to me again only after I took her to her favorite Mediterranean restaurant. After a calming plate of courgette and quinoa-stuffed peppers, she’d finally explained I’d been gone for weeks.

Weeks.

When I saw her wince and grip her side, I realized how screwed we were.

We’d been given about a month to get to each location and reset the Old Man’s communication dishes. Me being gone for weeks? The Hell bullet in Sally would burn through her gut in just days.

Was that his plan when he took me to that place?

Sally would have been happy to do the job herself, but I’d had the thumb drives in my pocket.

So she’d set about fixing her house. So she could die at home.

Alone.

We were now on the clock, really on the clock. Our first location was somewhere in Scotland, but it had only taken me a few calls, while Sally slurped her Greek yogurt chocolate mousse, to discover that the asshats of Hell inc. had gotten us on a no-fly list.

But Sally had inadvertently given me a plan with just two words.

“I tried three airlines. No go,” I said, slipping the phone back into my pocket. “We can’t even get a flight to the coast.”

“Fine by me,” she said, bits of brown froth dripping from her lips. “Not a fan of flyin’. I’m good with no planes.”

Right. No planes.

That phrase had triggered something in my brain, and within half an hour, we were back on Boo. Some twenty minutes after that, we’d arrived at a very isolated spot on the Mexican side of the Gulf Coast. I hadn’t even seen our border crossing, but I assumed that was what all the shouting and gunfire had been about a few minutes earlier.

There’d also been a fifty-fifty chance we’d plowed into either an outdoor orchestra or a traveling mariachi band. Rocketing through, everything a blur, I saw colorful costumes and heard the fah-twang! of a guitar smashing into millions of pieces.

Thirteen hundred miles in just minutes. Not a bad away to travel.

“That is a terrible way to travel,” Sally said, finally letting go of my shoulder, and I wondered if it had a red handprint now. After dismounting the bike, my legs shaking from the exertion of holding on, I sort of folded into a heap on the ground.

“Ow.”

“No time to lie around, Rasputin,” she said. I heard her boots land next to me. She’d hopped off the bike like she’d been sitting on a park bench. I coughed out the dirt she kicked up when landing.

My body aching, I flopped over very ungracefully onto my back. She stepped in, blocking the sun, and extended a hand to help me up. When I looked up and saw the hat on her head—not her cowboy hat but the hat on top of that—I said, “Well, that’s one mystery solved.”

“What?”

I pointed with a bent finger. “Mariachi band.”

She looked up, scowled, and tossed the colorful sombrero into the dirt next to me.

Slowly, I got to my feet, my legs complaining and trying to rally my other body parts in revolt. I put my hand out on Boo to steady myself, and the bike trilled slightly with my touch. This, as it always did, brought out a growl in Sally.

Once again, I was back in the dirt parking lot about a hundred yards away from the lapping waters of the Gulf. I actually smiled when I saw the old truck sitting as it always did. It looked like it hadn’t moved since the first time I’d seen it.

Sally was not smiling. “What fresh hell is this dreadful place?”

I came up beside her and pointed at the path between some sea oats.

“That’ll take us to the twins I was telling you about. They’re, um… gifted in the art of transportation. Unusual transportation.”

“You mean coyotes?” She frowned. “They’re people smugglers.”

“Ah, well, sorta. Just their day job.”

“Vermin. I don’t want to consor—” She finally turned to me and stopped mid-sentence. I gave her a big grin that she reflected back at me, although upside down. “Take that stupid thing off.”

“I like it,” I said, adjusting the sombrero to fit a bit tighter on my head. When I felt something digging into my scalp, I reached up and tugged at a strand of old string. I pulled it down over my face to let it swing under my chin. “See? Now I blend in.”

“You look like an idiot. Take it off,” she said. I wobbled to my feet and watched her gingerly walk toward the path, gripping her side with a fist.

“Does it hurt?”

“Just indigestion. Haven’t eaten.”

“Doesn’t really work… that way,” I said then slowly spun toward a faint voice. It was coming from the beat-up old pick-up that I was sure had died a long, long time ago. For hundreds of miles, this part of the Mexican coast was just sand and scrub. The rusted-out truck had always been a marker to tell me I was in the right spot. For me, at least.

However, I couldn’t remember whether it had belonged to the twins or not.

Right now, that didn’t concern me. What did was the voice coming from inside the cab.

“What are you doin’?” Sally called over as I walked to it. “Don’t have time for no auto shoppin’.”

Getting closer, I couldn’t make out the voice’s exact words, but I did recognize the cadence, slow and methodical like someone reading from a list. When I popped the door open, the only light inside was from the radio.

“Twenty-seven. Thirty-one. Seventeen…”

The Numbers Station.

I’d heard it the very first time I’d crossed the border, my first trip to Mexico, and at least one more time after that. Actually, I thought I’d heard it twice more.

“You hear that?”

I turned toward Sally, who threw her hands up in the air. “So they got shitty radio down these parts. Let’s go!”

Closing the door again, I walked away, the woman’s voice getting dimmer and dimmer behind me.

“Just checking,” I said. “Thought I might be imagining it.”

“I’d hope if you were gonna imagine a radio station that it might be one that played something good. Like Beyoncé.”

I nodded then turned my head back as I walked. Not because I thought I’d see anything but because I was desperately trying to hide my smile.

Beyoncé?

It only took a minute or so to get down to the beach, but it was a hard slog. My legs were already shaky, so walking in sand was the last thing they’d wanted to be a part of. I expected the body parts’ revolt was in full swing now, since the muscles in my left butt cheek were quivering, and the right was undoubtedly thinking hard about joining La Revolution.

The water sparkled in the afternoon sun as the small waves rolled onto shore. A sea breeze toyed with the brim of my sombrero. I sighed, taking in the relaxing scent of salty air.

“Goddamn it, Razzie. Nothing here.”

Coming back to the present, I gave her a “hold your horses” motion with my hand and spun back to the shoreline. The only time I’d been inside the twins’, um, lair was at night, and they’d led the way.

“The entrance is around here somewhere,” I said, walking along as I scanned the clumps of sand and reeds. After a few more steps, my weary body’s revolution continuing, I tripped and faceplanted once again.

Behind me, Sally was laughing. Not just laughing but bent over and guffawing with her full body, gasping for air.

Then I looked up, grit my teeth, and pulled off my cheerful hat, briefly getting the string chinstrap caught on my ear. Standing as I tried to get free, I grumbled at it, frustrated, and my other ear got caught up in the string.

“Goddamn… festive hat… leggo!”

“You there!” a voice called out, but I was otherwise occupied with the demon string and kept up my battle. “Hey! You fighting with the sombrero—put your hands up!”

I sighed and dropped my tired arms. The sombrero slid off my head and fell to the sand.

“Huh.”

The large man with the shotgun standing just a few feet away gave me a quizzical look then chuckled. “Rasputin? Why are you wearing the silly hat?”

“Hey, Jeckle,” I said and sat down on the sand with a thunk. “I was incognito.”

“No, you were in a stupid sombrero.”

Sally said, “Okay, I like this guy.”

When the twin noticed the six-shooters on Sally’s belt, he lifted the shotgun slightly higher. “Who is this?”

“Name’s Sally Scull. And Razzie says you guys are the ones to come to for transport needs.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I dunno. Ask him.”

Wobbling to my feet, I said: “Where’s Heckle?”

The large man nodded at the line of reeds.

“In the clubhouse. He’s working on designs for a rocket.”

“What about the sub?” I said, smiling at the thought of the last time we’d met.

He frowned and sighed. “Confiscated by the Federalies. They use it to patrol the waters around here now.”

“Oh, shit,” I said, remembering that they’d used their homemade submarine to help Anza and the Actor last year. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. They didn’t know to disable the GPS tracker so, actually, it works for us. Hated to lose our underwater boat, but now we always know where the cops are.”

I heard Sally grunt. She was tired of the catch-up chit-chat.

“Enough of the catch-up chit-chat,” she said.

I smiled. We’d been hanging around each other much too long.

“Uh, can we get a few minutes of your time, man?” I said. “We’re in a bit of trouble.”

Again, he laughed. “Rasputin, you are always in a bit of trouble! But I don’t know what we can do for you. Lost our sub, and the only boat we got you cannot have.”

“’Cause you use it to smuggle people,” Sally said with a growl.

“No, we help people get to a better life,” he said and nodded across the water toward the United States. “So they can attain liberty and pursue happiness.” The man who went by the codename Jeckle grinned at the gunslinger. “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Those are all good things, yes?”

Sally scowled at him. “I’d been against that particular notion from the start and told anyone who’d listen,” she said, trudging through the sand toward the reeds. “You earn your liberty, and happiness is a myth.”

She walked right past the guy and reached into a part of the sand and tall reeds that looked like every other part of the shoreline to me. Then she pulled on it and opened the door to the twins’ hideaway. Without turning, she stepped into the darkness and disappeared.

Huh.

In one quick move, Jeckle spun the shotgun over his shoulder and pushed the gun into a holster strapped to his back. He nodded at their secret entrance.

“I like your new friend.”

“Well, in truth,” I said, huffing as I crossed through the sand, “Sally’s more like a coworker.”

“And what are you two coworking on?”

Putting my hand on the top of the open door, I hesitated, remembering that the twins had a particular dislike for El Diablo, so telling him I was sort of working for the Old Man could be a mistake. I kept it simple.

“We got a job to do and need some help getting there.”

“Where is ‘there’?”

“Scotland.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “You mean in the UK? That Scotland?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you take a plane?”

From inside the tunnel, Sally’s voice echoed back to us. “No planes.”

The twin nodded, his face bending into a grin.

He said, “Let’s see what we can do.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Uncle Jerry leaned on the door frame of the Actor’s hotel room, watching the man racing from the small lounge area to the bedroom then back again. The only time the panicked man broke stride was to nab another tiny liquor bottle from the fridge, drain it, then toss the empty toward the hotel room’s trash.

He’d missed every time. All the glassware surrounding the can made the old pilot think it looked like the back alley behind some dodgy bar frequented by boozy mice.

“Ain’t you gonna at least change?”

“No time,” the Actor mumbled, a half-empty mini-bottle of Cuervo Gold hanging from his lips like a dead, stubby cigar. After tossing a clump of underwear and socks into his bag, he ran back into the bedroom.

“You really think any of this, you know, matters?”

Uncle Jerry eyeballed an upholstered chair, one of a set of two, next to a table in front of a big-screen TV. If he did sit down, he knew he may not want to get back up again, so he shooed the idea away.

That and over the past few months he’d been working with the Actor, he had learned one primary thing about the man: he was a horrific slob. There was no telling what might be slathered on the chair, dried to a crust, just waiting for some unsuspecting visitor to sit down and carry bits of it away.

“Like a bee,” he said to himself. “Carrying pollen from flower to flower. Ha! Nature.”

He looked down at his own bag resting up against his foot. Uncle Jerry realized that the worn bag had been his “home” for the past year or so. Actually, a long, long time had passed since he’d had a place of his own he could call home. He wanted that. But he had things to do before first.

“Got myself into this mess…” he said then cursed himself quietly. It wasn’t a mess. This was the life he’d made, and despite being shot at, beaten near to death, enslaved by a Mexican drug boss, and now running from an African warlord who likely wanted him dead, he had a good life.

He nodded. “I’m a lucky guy.”

“What?” the Actor said, his teeth clinking on the glass between his teeth. “Who are you talking to?”

“Ghosts,” Uncle Jerry said and laughed.

“Whatever,” the other man said, tossed a paperback into a suitcase almost as tall as he was, then flipped it on its back. He climbed on top of it, jumped a few times to compact the clothes inside, and plopped down to zip it closed.

“Need help?”

“No,” he shouted, grunting. Then, “Yes, yes. Come on!”

Uncle Jerry wandered over, bent down, and held two sides of the case together as the other man pulled on the zipper. The old pilot looked up at the beet-red face just inches away.

“Why you so wound up, man? I mean, so what if a bunch of Kiwis have terrible taste in movies. It’s New Zealand, for chrissake. They don’t even put it on maps.”

The Actor spit out the empty bottle, reached into one of the many pockets of his pirate outfit, and dug out another bottle. With an expertise people shouldn’t really have, he held it in his hand, and with a quick flick of his thumb, the top flew off across the room.

He stuffed a Baily’s Irish Cream where the Cuervo had been.

“It’s not just here. Not anymore,” he said, mumbling and grunting, yanking hard on the zipper. “The theater owner grabbed me as we left and congratulated me. Can you believe that? Congratulated me on the worst piece-of-shit movie I’d ever been a part of!”

The Actor finally got the bag zipped up enough so that his stuff wouldn’t tumble out of it. He stood, tipped his head back, and finished the bottle in one gulp.

“Yuck,” he said. He pulled the bottle out and looked at the label, smacking his lips. “I imagine that must be what prison is like.”

“Okay, you’re stressed. I got some pretty stellar homegrown from the Samoan guy running the desk downstairs, if you—”

“We gotta go!”

Uncle Jerry caught the expression on the other man’s face, eyes dancing wildly in his head.

“Wait,” he said. “You ain’t telling me something.”

The Actor looked at the open door as if a horde of orcs might burst through it any moment.

“Uh, it… I’ll tell you in the cab to the airport.”

Just as the Actor reached for the large suitcase, Uncle Jerry put his foot on it. He crossed his arms and looked down his nose. Waiting. The Actor crouched down to grab the handle, but the foot didn’t move. He looked up and saw a rare expression on his partner’s face—anger.

Not quite anger, he’d never seen the old man mad, not once, but this was nearly damn close. The Actor took a half step back, eyes still on the door. His voice dropped low.

“I just got an email. Receipts have come back to the distributor and… oh, Jesus, man. We’re screwed. It’s all fucked beyond all that is fucked!”

“You’re upset because accountants are all crabby-apple with you?”

“No-wah!” the Actor said. He smacked away Uncle Jerry’s foot and turned the case upright on its wheels. “The distributor is thrilled. Ecstatic.”

“See, you’re talented, brother! Even your shittiest film is good.”

“Don’t you see the problem with that?”

Uncle Jerry laughed. “You mean like a sequel? I made sure in the contract—”

“Listen to me! The distributor has now rushed a shit-ton of bookings, set the film up in test markets to see if it’s just some one-off or… something else. Something terrible!”

“Like what?”

The Actor raised his face to his friend, his voice a whisper. “A blockbuster.”

“But it can’t…” The other man started to smile, but then it crashed so quickly, the Actor was surprised it didn’t make a sound. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, oh, shit! I’ve been trying to tell you, we’re screwed, man!”

Uncle Jerry grabbed the handle of the case and tugged it toward the door as the Actor spun around, grabbed a tiny mint off the nightstand, and ate it. With the wrapper on.

The pilot plopped his leather bag on top of the roll-away suitcase and extended the short handle. He propped the door open with his foot.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m worried now! Delayed worry is just as bad as immediate worry, man,” Uncle Jerry said. “Worse even because now we got less options.”

“There is only one option,” the Actor said. He peeked into the hallway then ducked back. “We get the hell out of here.”

“Okay, okay,” Uncle Jerry said, grunting as he grabbed the suitcase’s handle. “Just stop keeping shit from me, you selfish prick.”

Satisfied, the Actor stepped into the empty hall and exhaled. “Don’t worry. We got from lobby to cab, from cab to airport, from airport to anywhere but here.”

“Great.”

Calmer now that he was on the move, the Actor almost smiled. “Don’t worry, man. I got this covered. We’ll be fi—”

The elevator dinged.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Both men looked down the hallway to see three of Induna’s female guards pouring out of the elevator, heads swiveling in all directions. The Actor recognized at least one of them from the film producer’s spooky Scottish castle.

The three women, as if on cue, pulled out pistols from their belts. And a moment later, the women locked eyes on the old pilot-turned-agent and the actor-turned-pirate as the pair stood, mouths agape, at the room’s doorway.

“Don’t move,” one of the women said, her voice even but the venom of it nearly knocking the two of them over.

The Actor was frozen.

Maybe he could reason with them. He’d done as they’d asked! Risking his career, dressing like a moron for nearly two weeks, all in an effort to make good on the deal with Induna. How could they possibly blame him?

Uncle Jerry had no interest in hanging around for a confab with three armed women. Three angry armed women.

“Run,” he said.

They sprinted in the opposite direction, past the two rooms to the next T-section in as many seconds, but it felt like an eternity, and of course, the moment they’d started running, one of the armed goons had fired at them. The bullet landed with a thut! in the large roll-away suitcase.

“Jesus, man, what the hell? They’re fucking shooting at us!” the Actor said.

“I think they’re pissed.”

“You think?”

After rounding the corner, the two men had plowed into the exit door at the end of the hall. As it closed, another bullet ricocheted off its metal handle.

“That’s a fire door,” Uncle Jerry said, panting. “It’ll withstand a few bullets, but I’m gonna have to hold it.”

“What? No way!”

Uncle Jerry got down on one knee and wrapped his arm between the bar and the door. A few seconds later, he and the Actor could hear pounding and shouting on the other side as the three women hammered the metal bar, which banged over and over into the old pilot’s arm.

“Ow, go away! We don’t want none of what ya sellin’!”

The Actor lay flat against the cold cement wall. “What do we do?”

“Ugh! You’re going to have to hightail it down to the bottom,” his old friend said. “No use in both of us getting nabbed.”

He looked back to the old man, who struggled to hold the door.

This guy was the reason they were in this mess in the first place! The Actor knew he should have gone it alone from the start—he’d always done better by himself. Always! Because of Uncle Jerry, he’d gone from C-lister to no-lister in a few short months!

It’s all his fault.

Finally, he could be rid of the man!

“Go, ya little bastard!”

The Actor took a tentative step forward and placed his hand on the banister. When he looked back at Uncle Jerry, the man was beet red, his eyes closed in exertion. He would not be able to hold them off long.

Mentally, the Actor screamed, Run!

The Actor leaned over the edge and could see his freedom just a few floors below. Freedom from Induna’s guards, freedom from a life he’d never planned or wanted, and freedom from Uncle Jerry!

Then he turned.

He turned toward the man willing to sacrifice himself for a friend. Die for a friend.

For him.

“Wait,” the Actor muttered.

With one last glance toward the stairs, he squared his stance, faced the door, and yanked his costume metal sword from its costume plastic scabbard.

“Avast, ye!”

Uncle Jerry opened his eyes and nearly laughed. “You’re insane,” he said, sucking in gasps of air. “Ya can’t fight off three pistol-swingin’ killers with a fake sword. Run, you stu—”

The Actor raised the sword above Uncle Jerry’s head, occasioning a “What the hell, man?” from him. The pretend pirate brought the dull blade down hard with a clank!

When the old pilot looked over, the fake sword had not impaled his very real shoulder. Instead, the prop hung on the metal bar with its saucer-shaped hand guard preventing it from dropping through.

Uncle Jerry yanked his arm out of the gap, wary the cheap sword might fall, but as the gunwomen on the other side of the door yanked and kicked the latch, the pommel just banged rhythmically against the metal door.

“You beauty!” Uncle Jerry said and stood up on wobbly legs. “Couldn’t leave me behind, could ya? I think you’re sweet on me.”

“Whatever,” the Actor said, avoiding the other man’s eyes. “If we’re running, I just might need a bit of help with the stairs.”

Uncle Jerry squeezed his shoulder.

“You got it, brother.”

A plaintive metallic groan rang off the walls, and when the two men looked back at the door, their eyes grew big.

The sword was bending.

Uncle Jerry looked down the stairwell. Four flights. He then glanced back at the door.

“That fake pirate sword ain’t gonna last.”

“Then let’s go!”

As the Actor spun around to take the tall stairs, gripping the rail, he gingerly began to walk backward, step by step. As the dangling sword banged and clanked, Uncle Jerry scanned their small space. All they had to defend themselves with was luggage.

For the next few seconds, the Actor watched his short-legged friend struggle with the steps.

“Aw, hell,” Uncle Jerry said then laid the big rollaway flat. He then slid it to the top of the stairs, the tiny wheels on the bottom hanging over the edge.

Then he sat in the middle of it and nodded behind him.

“We’ll go back-to-back,” he said with more confidence then he felt. Any confidence would have been more than he felt because this gambit could not possibly work. “You kick off the back walls. I’ll kick off the front.”

The Actor was halfway between the second step and the third.

“No way, man.”

“Come on! We’ll slide and kick all the way down.”

“No way! No way, man!”

They both flinched as another shot cracked the glass, then, a moment later, the sword bent further. Then the pommel fell off. All that was holding it up now was a flimsy aluminum hand guard.

“You’re batshit insane,” the Actor mumbled as he climbed back to the landing then aboard the large suitcase. He pressed his back to his friend’s, gripping the handle on one side and the fabric on the other.

“It’ll work,” Uncle Jerry said with a half grin as he faced the quaking door. “Always wanted to try something like this.”

“I don’t want to do this,” the Actor said as he faced the front wall, his fists bloodless as they gripped the straps.

He heard a loud tinny sound then a clattering.

The enemy was coming through the door.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sally hovered over the motorcycle, her eyes red-rimmed and fierce. She reached out as if she wanted to hold it, pull it into her arms, and let it know everything would be all right, but her trembling fingers floated just above the bike’s chassis like she was worried her gentle touch might hurt.

“What have you done to mah Horse?”

Bucephalus puttered quietly as it sat upright, two stone slabs on either side. I would have never said to Sally, but the bike actually sounded like it was purring.

Jeckle put the metal cutter down onto the stone picnic table and wiped the sweat from his face, smearing a slight trail of blood across his cheek. Three of his fingers were wrapped in electrical tape.

I’d noticed the guy’s hands before. They were big meaty mitts with a patchwork of scars across the palms and fingers. This was a guy who was most happy when his fingers were raw from one of his creations.

“It looks good,” Heckle said, his red goggles hanging around his neck.

My gunslinger friend wasn’t buying it.

“It’s… this here… you’ve turned the love of my life into an abomination!”

The motorcycle gunned itself a quarter throttle a few times.

I smiled and said, “Boo seems to like it.”

Without even turning to me, Sally brought her left hand to her holster, and I heard a bang. The small puff of smoke swirled as she reholstered her sidearm, her eyes never leaving her beloved bike.

In unison, the twins said, “Holy shit!”

“Ow.”

“Bastarda loca!” Heckle said, caught somewhere between horror and laughter.

I looked up at Sally and again said, “Ow.”

Jeckle pointed at me. “You shot Rasputin!”

Smarting from the bullet, I raised my hands, my right side a bit slower than my left, and said, “No, no. My fault. She doesn’t like it when I call the bike that.”

“Yeah,” one of the twins said. “But… she shot you, man. I mean, you know, shot you.”

The other said, “You need a Band-Aid or something?”

“No, no. It’s, uh, a type of blank,” I said as I put my finger through my shirt, “Not real.”

“But you got a smoking hole in your shirt, pendejo,” Jeckle said, pointing his bandaged finger. “How is that a blank?”

Waving the comment off, I said, “Nah, nah. It just singes the clothes a bit. I’m fine.”

“Really?” Heckle said, turning to Sally. “Shoot me, gun lady!”

My hand snapped out to stop Sally the moment she spun, pistol raised, finger on the trigger. The crazy part was I hadn’t even really thought about it. I just reacted. I think Sally was even more surprised than I was, if that were possible.

She scowled at me, but her eyes danced a little, unsure. “When’d you get so fast, shmegegge?”

“Rasputin, that was some ninja shit right there,” Heckle said and clapped once. Then he turned to Sally. “What is a shmegegge?”

“Jerk!” She said, now vaguely pointing her pistol at me. I saw her finger go to the trigger, and I frowned then shook my head at her. She sighed and holstered the gun again.

From experience, this was only violence-in-waiting. Once Sally pulled her gun out, someone was getting a bullet. So, for now, she was, um, pent up? Might be the best way to describe it, but I made a mental note to not antagonize her anytime soon.

“I really wanted to shoot him,” she said to me, grumbling. “And his idiot brother.”

“What the hell, Madame Gunslinger!”

“We totally helped you!”

And they had. I think.

It had taken about two hours of work to get the bike, well, into the shape it was now.

As Sally and one half of the dynamic duo had pulled out the equipment, the other brother and I left the beach and walked down the road about a half mile to where an abandoned shack once stood.

“Who puts a tool shed out here in the desert?”

Heckle frowned. “Wasn’t a tool shed. This was someone’s home.”

“No,” I said looking at the dilapidated structure. I’d seen bigger doghouses in people’s backyards. “Who?”

“Don’t know, but it was a family that lived here until they got run off by one of the cartels.” I could see the anger on his face, and he’d then channeled that into kicking the side of the structure, which came down with a clatter.

We each grabbed one side of corrugated tin roof and dragged it back.

When we returned, Jeckle was using his torch on the remains of a pontoon boat that had washed up on the beach, fashioning one of the tubes into a float about a quarter of its original size.

Sally and I had sat on the stone picnic bench to watch them.

Now that we were finished, I stared down at the bedazzled bike.

“This is going to, um, work?”

The twins, in unison, shrugged then wiped their brows and began to clean their tools.

For her part, Sally was like a momma cat hovering over her injured kitten. Actually, she was more like a momma bear. Hell, more like a momma bearcat, some unholy creature that could tear open your throat and eat your head while carrying an air of total indifference.

I looked at my friend. “Hey Sal, you all right?”

She sniffed and wiped the back of her hand across her face, eyes a little watery.

“Only thing I truly ever really loved, Raz.”

“What? You don’t love me? All the time we spent together?” I said, spreading my arms comically. “You would have if you’d had my chimichangas. They woulda been stellar.”

She raised her head to me slowly. “You got your heart somewhere else, amigo. And that’s a good thing. I been done wrong by everyone I ever cared about.”

“Listen, maybe we can—”

“No, no, Razzie,” she said, forcing a smile. “We gotta job to do, and I have learned you ain’t one for doing nothing. Even if that something you’re doing is totally fakakta.”

I chuckled. “I’m kinda starting to regret that we ever taught you how to swear in Yiddish.”

“Best gift anyone’s ever given me, I reckon,” she said. Then she cleared her throat. “Okay, I’m over it.” She shot a glance up to me. “We can, you know, make this better again, right? I mean, when we get over there, we can just strip all this stuff off, and he’ll be just like new?”

Her eyes were locked onto me, unblinking. Just over her shoulder, I cast a glance at the twins. In unison, they shook their heads.

“Yes, of course!” I said and rounded to the other side of the bike so I could comfort her a little. Also, that way, she didn’t see that the boys were now giving me a silent yet more aggressive shake of their heads, as if to say, “Ah hell no.”

“Okay,” she said then tugged down on her leather vest, one of her tics. “Reckon we should get going.”

The four of us pushed the bike into the water. Sure enough, Bucephalus floated happily there, bobbing slightly in the low, lapping waves.

At the front, the wheel had been secured into the quarter-sized pontoon, which ran underneath and was secured to the kickstand. At the back, the rear wheel had been fitted with a series of cupped blades. When the tire spun, it would act like a paddle wheel of sorts.

“Keep arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times,” Jeckle said as if he were conducting a flight attendant’s pre-flight speech. “If, of course, you are particularly attached to your arms and legs.”

“Because if the that rear tire gets anywhere near them—” his brother added.

“—they no longer will be.”

Heckle clarified, “Attached, that is.”

Both brothers smiled.

I climbed on first, gripping the handlebars and plotting Scotland into the GPS. I couldn’t even explain, as someone who’d used location software for more than a decade, how out-of-the-box bizzaro it was to put a foreign country into one’s GPS.

I didn’t want to anthropomorphize the bike, but I felt that it was thrilled for a chance to go that far as fast as it could. Smiling, I made sure that Sally wasn’t watching, and I stroked its fuel tank.

“Good boy,” I whispered. The motorcycle trilled beneath my fingers.

The bike shifted slightly in the water as Sally climbed on. Taking a deep breath, I gunned the engine a few times and then felt the familiar tap-tap on my shoulder, letting me know that Sally was on and ready to go.

Over the whine of the engine, I heard one of the twins say, “Good luck. You’re never going to make it!”

The other shouted over the noise, “Why would you say that?”

“Tradition! I always say that when Rasputin is about to do something insane.”

“Oh,” his brother said. “Say hi to the Loch Ness Monster when you get there.”

The engine revved harder.

“Send a postcard!”

I sucked in a deep breath and gripped the handlebar with one hand. With the other, I hit Start on the GPS. The travel time offered by the GPS software was somewhere around nineteen hours.

Of course, it wouldn’t take that long. Not even close.

My hands clamped tight on the grips.

My feet locked onto the pegs.

“Okay, Boo,” I said and got a punch in the shoulder, which I’d expected. Then, I breathed the word “Giddyup.”

* * *

The two young men watched as the motorcycle shot off at an impossible speed. They cheered, raising their hands, whooping and hollering.

One of them turned and landed a playful punch on the other’s arm.

A strange expression crossed Jeckle’s face. Then he reached into his dirty smock and pulled out a piece of steel and rubber that looked a bit like a large, long bullet.

“Oh, damn,” he said. “What’s this do?”

Heckle laughed and stared out at a line of froth that looked like a fantastic dragon’s watery chem trail. In the distance, the fantail of water grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared.

“As fast as they’re going?” Heckle said and turned back to the stone table. “They’ll never miss it.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A shot clanged off the wall of the hotel’s stairwell, and Uncle Jerry flinched. Induna’s guards were now trying to shoot them through the skinny gap in the partially opened door.

The two men sat atop the massive suitcase perched at the top of the steps, back-to-back, their deep breaths now in sync.

The Actor squeezed his eyes closed, preparing for the impact, but then remembered he needed to see to be able to kick off the wall or they’d be sitting ducks.

The idea was gonzo.

They would rocket downward, and once on the landing, he would have to kick off the wall, sending them hurtling toward the next set of stairs. Down they would go, and Uncle Jerry would kick off the next wall. And so on and so on until they got to the bottom.

His voice strained, the Actor said, “This is like being in some low-budget Brit thriller.”

“You said you always wanted to be an action star!”

“I take it back.”

“Ready?”

Induna’s three armed guards slammed into the door, and the sword bent farther.

“Three… two…”

The cheap costume sword’s metal blade groaned as it bent, and Uncle Jerry looked up at it. Then he watched it fall to the floor with a clatter.

The Actor closed one eye. “I don’t wanna do this!”

Uncle Jerry shouted, “Action!”

INT. LANGHAM HOTEL, STAIRWELL - DAY

UNCLE JERRY and THE ACTOR launch from the top step of the stairwell just as the door bangs open. Induna’s guards trip over themselves coming through the passageway and stumble to a heap on the floor.

The two men on the suitcase speed down the stairs, bumping along, like a child’s Big Wheel racing across train tracks.

THE ACTOR

O-o-oh, Jesus Chr—

They hit the first landing.

UNCLE JERRY

Kick, ya bastard!

The wheeled case skitters across the short square of cement floor, and the Actor pulls his legs back and kicks out with everything he’s got.

THE ACTOR

Oof!

They’ve switched directions, and he watches the wall grow smaller in his tunnel vision. As the case takes the second set of stairs, the motion throws back his weight, and he knocks heads with his partner.

UNCLE JERRY

(he can’t help it—he’s laughing)

Go, go gadget… legs!

The dwarf actor feels his stomach lurch somewhere two feet behind him as he’s thrust forward again. The two men tip down the second landing, arching toward the third.

THE ACTOR

Holy shit!

From above, shots ring out, and one ricochets off the metal banister, sending sparks raining down upon them.

The Actor grips the handles tight, getting the rhythm of it now, and just as he and Uncle Jerry slide toward the next landing’s wall, he pushes his legs out fast as if attempting to leap up to a slam dunk on a basketball hoop.

They rocket in the other direction just as another volley of bullets hits the wall they’d just kicked off. As both men pick up speed now, their heads are bobbing around like they’re about to come unhinged.

UNCLE JERRY

(imitating a race announcer)

Jerry and his copilot are coming

up on turn three—

He kicks out hard with his legs and feels the bones of his hips knock into his rib cage. The stairwell rings out with yelling and shouting as the three gun-toting women clamor downward, taking up the chase.

The Actor’s head is spinning, his eyes dancing, as he and Uncle Jerry hit every step down to the next floor. Feeling like a bobblehead on a roller coaster, he chances a look down the stairwell.

THE ACTOR

One more floor!

UNCLE JERRY

Give it hell, Actor!

The smaller of the two men can’t help it—he’s absorbing the other man’s enthusiasm. A few steps from the next landing, he grips tightly again and pulls his knees up like he’s about to give birth. Then at the final wall—

THE ACTOR

Hi-ya!

The final floor!

UNCLE JERRY

Hold on! When we hit bottom

run like hell!

THE ACTOR

Way ahead of you, man!

Another shot clangs off the nearby concrete wall, spitting out dust and bits of grit.

The wheeled case hits the bottom floor at a terrific speed—

UNCLE JERRY

Hit the brakes!

THE ACTOR

What brakes?

The two men smack into the wall with a BANG and are knocked off the case. The younger of the two gets to his feet fast then steps up to help his friend. Now that both men are standing, Uncle Jerry’s face is pure joy.

UNCLE JERRY

Well, goddamn, that worked.

Let’s do that again!

The Actor can’t help laughing.

Above them, the three armed women have made it halfway down the stairs, yelling and cursing as they go.

THE ACTOR

Let’s get the hell out of here.

UNCLE JERRY

Wait!

The Actor slams the metal bar that opens the door on the bottom floor.

There, Induna Nemukula is waiting, leveling at them the sort of pistol that would have made even Dirty Harry spot his khakis.

INDUNA

Hello, my friends.

The two men raise their hands just as the three guards take the last set of stairs. Behind them, the sound of weapons cocking.

THE ACTOR

Cut.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Captain Hamish Clark was struggling to keep a straight face.

Absentmindedly, he stared out across the gleaming deck of the Australian aircraft carrier known as the HMAS Woolloomooloo, the newest and most secret of their fleet.

“Captain,” a young petty officer said with a salute. “We’ve finished a maintenance check on the F-35s, and they’re all good. We split the Harrier fighters and choppers, like you asked, to either side of the aft deck.”

In today’s military exercises, he was the rabbit to the Allied foxes. Of course, the foxes couldn’t see the rabbit—this round was testing out the stealth technology that had made the HMAS Woolloomooloo virtually invisible to traditional radar, satellite, and heat-sensory technology.

The one heartbreak was that it was the rabbit, which meant that they’d not have a chance to fire any of the toys he’d been given. Not the Chinook’s 7.62x51mm FN MAG 58 machine guns. None of the hellfires on the Harriers.

But worst, none of the four big beauties at both the aft and stern of his ship.

Captain Hamish Clark wanted, just once, to load up and launch one of the LRLAPs from the MK 57 VLS modules. The load was so powerful, they would not only flatten an entire town but bruise its long-dead founding fathers in the afterlife.

“Sonar contact, aye,” one of the helmsmen shouted, one hand pressing his left headphone hard against his head. “Bearing 37.02 to starboard.”

Captain Hamish looked down for his binoculars. Damn, I left them in my cabin. What a muppet I am. He saw a pair dangling around the chief petty officer’s neck and grabbed those, not bothering to first untangle them from the junior officer.

Holding the spy-glasses to his eyes and ignoring the choking sounds from the man next to him, he scanned the horizon. Left to right. Right to left.

“How the hell’d they find us, then?” the captain said, letting go of the binoculars. The petty officer sucked in a few deep breaths, bent over at the waist. “Christ, this is supposed to be a forty-eight-hour operation, and we’ll get nicked in the first—”

“Sir, no, sir!”

“Maybe it’s the HMS Fitzsimmons or the USS Zum—”

“No, sir,” the sonar operator said. “I don’t think it’s one of ours. The signature isn’t one that we’ve got in our database.”

Stepping back into the Captain’s Nest, he called over to one of his crew. “Hail the approaching vessel,” he said. “Let’s at least give the daft bugger a chance.”

After a few seconds, he got the response he’d wanted.

“Nothing from our hails, sir.”

“Right,” he said. “How far out is she?”

“Three hundred thirty-eight nautical miles,” a voice shouted over the din. “Now, three hundred ten.”

The captain spun around. “That’s not possible. Come on. Check your—”

“Sorry, sir, now two hundred eighty.”

Slowly, he spun back toward the line separating the sky from the sea. He muttered, “Nothing can travel that fast.” Then, as if coming from a daze, he shouted his order. “I need a firing solution, weapons.”

“Targeting now, sir!” Behind him, a young woman used touch screens to track the unidentified object. “It’s not in a defensive posture, certainly. She’s moving in a straight line, and in the next twenty-seven seconds, she’ll cut right across our bow.”

“Is it some sort of half-submerged torpedo?”

The young woman sounded like she’d uttered a low curse.

“Officer? I need a goddamn answer!”

“Not a torpedo, sir,” she shouted back. “It’ll miss us by about three hundred meters.” She turned toward the captain. “But if it makes the slightest deviation south-southeast, going that fast, it’ll put a hole right through our boat.”

The captain gritted his teeth. Who the fuck does this joker think he is?

“Do I have my firing solution?”

“Uh, yes. Yes, sir!”

Clark tugged at his coat’s sleeves and lifted his hand to his cap.

“Do it,” he said. “Plot it in.”

The captain heard a series of commands and responses behind him. A moment later, the massive turret of one of the largest weapons in the world, a 155mm Advanced Gun System, spun toward its target.

“Locked on, sir!”

As it turned, the turret lifted into the air, locking at the precise angle necessary for obliterating the bogey.

The captain did not hesitate.

“Fire!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I had no idea how long we’d been speeding along across the wide expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. It could have been minutes or few hours. At one point, my arms began to shake, and I’d had to wedge myself down to huddle onto the gas tank.

The smell of the water, the damp air, and the hum of the engine brought back memories of my childhood on Lake Minnetonka near Minneapolis. My best friend, Adam, had a dad who would take us out on his boat to throw lines out for panfish—bluegill, crappie, sunfish.

Mainly, those times were chances for all of us just to hang out. I missed those days.

Sometimes my mother would come along too. She and Adam’s dad and mom had been part of a group of friends as teenagers. Few of them had ever moved away from the Twin Cities, so many had remained friends as adults.

The best parts were not actually out on the lake, waiting for a bite, but the trip back from whatever fishing hole Mr. B. had taken us to. The sun would be cooling in the west, and we’d put on our windbreakers and life jackets and keep low from the chilly wind that ushered in the night.

My favorite time was just lying on the cold aluminum bench, my head up on a spare life jacket. Each seat could fit two people reclining lengthwise, especially when Adam and I were still small.

But this memory wasn’t about hanging with Adam. It was about hanging with my momma. She seemed so happy. Or, at least, content, as she sipped a Leinenkugel from its brown bottle, long having peeled away its label. My mother had a way of making a single beer last hours.

“What chu thinking about?” I’d said over the whipping wind. Lost in thought, she’d been staring toward the front of the boat and hadn’t heard me, so with our knees parallel to each other, I’d knocked one of mine into hers.

Casually, she turned toward me and popped an eyebrow.

I shouted, “You contemplating life’s greatest mysteries?”

She took a tiny quick sip and grinned at me. But the smile had a tinge of sadness, which punched my heart. I’d rarely seen her without that. Even at her happiest, she always had that faraway wistfulness. Even to this day.

So I knew she was thinking about him again.

I’d never known my father. Long before that day in the boat, I’d learned to stop asking about him. She would tell me in her own time—or not at all—but every time I brought it up, she would be lost for hours in a funk.

But that time, she gotten a strange look. An emotional battle raging over her face, she started to speak.

“Razzie, you should kn—” she started, but then the boat hit a hard wave and leapt. We both bounced a few inches, grinning nervously, but it was over as fast as it had begun.

I’d never taken my eyes off her face, waiting.

She closed her eyes, laid her head back, and only said, “One day.”

Then Bucephalus dropped a gear, yanking away the memory of that trip. My face smashed into the base of the handlebars as we slowed down from whatever ludicrous speed we were doing to just hyperspeed.

The sky turned from red to orange and back to blue again. When I finally pressed myself up, my arms stiff, I could see the shoreline coming up fast ahead of us. I couldn’t see where the bike was going to beach itself but knew the landing would be bumpy, so I stiffened my trembling arms again and held on to the grips of the handlebars.

“Hold on, Sally,” I shouted. “I think this is going to be rough!”

We hit the rocky beach, and Boo rolled over the top of it, shooting sparks from the metal plates that had been affixed to its rear tires. The front pontoon bent and crushed under our weight. Then the pontoon fell away, and we jerked up. Had we not been holding on, the motion would have thrown us easily.

Finally, the bike came up to the lip of a dirt road and skidded to a stop.

My body was still buzzing, throbbing, from gripping so tightly for the entirety of the ride across the ocean. And my head swam. I didn’t know whether that was ironic or just the hangover from having my brain squeezed into the back of my skull.

I pulled one leg down off the foot peg then the other. They moved slowly, like I’d been in a cast for a few months, and this was the first time I’d been able to stretch. The sensation hurt and felt amazing at the same time.

Then, I stepped off, feet flat on the ground—and, a moment later, face flat on the ground.

“Aw, hell.”

I spat out some dirt and flopped over on my back, my face warming in the Scottish sun.

“You okay?” I called to Sally. She’d been quieter than usual, and I assumed she was having as hard a time as I was rediscovering my limbs.

Then I saw that, collectively, our group was down one member.

“Holy shit!”

I sat up quickly, and my vision became a black void for a moment, stars at its edges. I thought I was hallucinating. Maybe she’d gotten off and went up the road to do a little scouting?

I shouted, “Sally! Hey, Sally Scull!”

Nothing.

Somehow, I stood back up and spun around to look back at the rocky beach. She wasn’t there. I scanned the water as far as I could see.

Nothing.

Bucephalus looked like hell. Some piping hung off the front axle where the pontoon once was, and whatever metal fins had not been stripped off during our climb up the rocky beach were now bent and mangled.

The bike looked like something from an unaired pilot of West Coast Choppers, unfit for broadcast.

“Boo, where is she?”

The engine gave off a low putt-putt-puttering sound, the occasional plink! of the engine cooling after the long, flat-out ride. But Bucephalus had no answer for me. Looking at the bike, I saw one of the rear bullet-shaped foot pegs was missing.

I was standing alone on the shores of Scotland.

Staring out across the water, some part of me, a stupid and naive part, was hoping I’d see a floating gunslinger out in the water, waving with both hands.

I had nothing. No idea. So I stepped up to the bike and brought up the GPS software again, drawing my finger across the small screen, tracing our path back from the Mexican coast to here. It was a straight shot all the way across the…

“What is…?”

About three quarters of the way was the tiniest little wobble in the straight line. I did the reverse-pinch thing with my fingers to zoom in on it. I’d lost the spot a few times, but then I saw it.

A perfect ramrod-straight line from one side of the screen to the other, showing our path somewhere in the north Atlantic. But right in the middle of the screen was the briefest deviation. A quick double-jog that looked a little like what? The letter n? Or maybe an upside-down horseshoe?

Staring at the image, trying to make it larger, I said, “Did you go around something, Boo? In the middle of the ocean?”

For a moment, it sounded like the bike trilled just slightly. As if it had been pleased with itself. Did it try to shake Sally off?

No.

Reality sank in. And by sank in, I mean that reality hit me like a mean drunk with a broken baseball bat.

“She’s out there,” I said. “In the water. She was wearing a duster and, and guns and steel-toed boots. She would have…”

Right.

As an operative of the Downstairs, she wouldn’t drown even if she did sink to the bottom of the ocean. It had been so long since I’d wept. Really wept. Not since Cassie’s death.

I’m right here, baby.

You know what I mean. You had to go, and now I’m stuck here.

Right. To do good, so you can join me.

Am I doing good? Jesus Christ, Cass, I’m working for the goddamn Devil. Again! I don’t think that qualifies as doing good. In fact, I think that is the exact, polar opposite of “doing good.”

Ends to justify the means.

What the hell does that mean?

You’ve heard the chatter around you. There’s a big showdown coming. The outcome of that, well, that will ultimately determine this good-versus-bad stuff for you.

So working for Satan means I’m one of the good guys? I ain’t buying it.

I sighed.

How the fuck did I get myself tangled up in this mess, Cass?

It’s not a mess. Your heart is in the right place.

By working for the overlords of Hell?

Ah, well. Sometimes it ain’t exactly bad. You’re not working for the Old Man, really. It’s like just sitting down for a coffee.

Coffee with the devil.

Yeah. Just a moment in time to do what’s right.

And what is that? Jesus, Cass, I’m so screwed up I don’t know anymore.

Well, you know the first thing you’ve got to do.

What? No, I don’t. What?

You need to find your friend.

But—

At that moment, I felt something cool against my side and jumped back. I wiped the tears out of my eyes. When I looked over, Sally’s motorcycle had sidled up next to me, rubbing against my hip.

Like a dog might have done when it knew you were sad.

I crouched down, rubbed my hand over Boo’s chassis, and got that little trilling thing it did in response. Then I rested my head on its fuel tank for a moment and let the cool metal pull some of the hot blubbery flush from my face.

“Oh, Boo. We’re so screwed,” I said, sighing. “We gotta go find our friend. Out there, somewhere. How we gonna do that?”

The bike revved a few times, so loudly that I had to pull my face away. Then it revved even harder, like it was about to take off again.

“What are…?”

A moment later, I saw the front brake handle engage. The back tire started to spin, moving clunkily at first with all the metal jammed into it but then faster and faster.

Bits of corrugated tin began to fly, and I dropped to the ground.

“Holy hell!”

The bike sounded like it was almost pegging the tachometer, faster and faster, but going nowhere. Shielding my eyes with my fingers, I saw the bike began to shimmy.

Then the ad-hoc left-side stabilizing bar flew off, about one hundred feet.

Pling!

A moment later, the right one flew just over my head.

Pling!

The engine revved faster and faster, and kicking up so much dust, I had shrunk into a ball, and then I just sort of rolled away, trying to get a breath of clean air.

Then, it ended.

My arms over my head, I could hear Boo’s old putt-putt-puttering. When I looked back at the bike, it appeared as it had before. Mostly. Gleaming black metal and chrome. The fins were gone, and the tire was clear.

All the bits and pieces the twins had jammed in and welded on now lay in pieces of melted, burnt, and twisted bits of metal and fiberglass all around us. However, Boo wasn’t without damage.

The fins had roughed up the tires, and the bolts, now stripped away, had left deep gashes as if the bike had gotten into a fight with a sabertoothed tiger.

I smiled.

“You are a beautiful, beautiful machine, Boo,” I said, and it replied with a slight rev. Then I remembered how the bike had nuzzled up against my leg. Several times in the past, I’d thought about how the motorcycle was, in some way, alive. Like a hellhound wrapped in the shell of the most powerful bike on the planet.

If it were like a dog…

“We gotta find my friend,” I said, crouching back down next to the bike. “Can you help me do that?”

The bike just kept putt-puttering.

“You and I are pals, right?” I said. “If you got lost out there somewhere, I’d go looking for you. That’s what pals do. They look out for each other. And if you’ve got, I dunno, any animal sense of… whatever, maybe you could—”

Then the bike jerked.

The wheel jutted suddenly to the left then to the right. I watched as the bike jutted around, engine revving, brakes jamming, then turning in a small circle. When it rose on one wheel, again, I took a few steps back.

“What?”

The engine gunned a few times in quick succession, and the wheel popped back down, kicking up a small dirt devil. Boo spun in a tight circle, pointing and revving. Ready to go.

“Do you know—?”

Again, the engine revved, vroom-vroom-vroom!, and my heart nearly leapt from my chest.

Sure, Bucephalus was a machine. A weird, half-alive Hell-sent motorcycle, so whatever it was pointing at might have been, for all I knew, maybe a lady weird, half-alive Hell-sent motorcycle. But I went with my gut and the same sort of play that, frankly, had started me on this path from the beginning.

When you run out of all the smart options, do something stupid.

“Okay,” I said, throwing one leg over the seat. “Let’s do this, Boo.”

The moment my feet hit the pegs, we shot off like a bike outta Hell.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“My scabbard is digging into my junk,” the Actor said, grimacing at the woman sitting in the lounger across from him. “Can you loosen the seat belt a bit?”

Expressionless, she looked over then glanced out the window of Induna’s jet, high above the ocean. She finished off the rest of the airline-sized pack of pretzels and put it on the pile of empty wrappers on the table next to her.

The Actor nodded to the stack of wrappers. At least two dozen had to be piled up.

“I think that constitutes a fire hazard. Wouldn’t want a fire at forty thousand feet.”

Sitting in a seat next to the open-doored cockpit, the other guard polished her rifle. The Actor stared at the back of Uncle Jerry’s head, piloting headphones clamped to the man’s ears. In the short time the Actor had known the guy, it seemed Uncle Jerry had fewer hairs there now than he’d remembered.

Hours earlier, back at the hotel, the guards had thrown them into an empty banquet hall on the bottom floor, and Induna was not happy.

“You have failed,” the warlord filmmaker had said, three armed female guards looming behind him.

“I did what you asked,” the Actor said. “For chrissakes, I even dressed like a fucking pirate for nearly two weeks! For a buddy cop movie!”

“’What had seemed like a surefire and laughable box office flop,’” Induna read from a jagged scrap of newsprint, “‘Frank & Earnest is in a word… a sensation.’ This person who has written this article has even used the word ‘revolutionary.’ This is not what I instructed you to do.”

“I am sorry,” the Actor said, emphasizing each word. “It seems I am incapable of diluting my skills as an actor, so despite my attempts to destroy this picture single-handedly… I mean, I’m just too good, man. Everything I touch turns to gold.”

“What about that video game one?” one of the guards behind Induna said. “That was terrible. And made a terrible mockery of the great Adam Sandler.”

“Yes, yes.” Induna half turned, holding up a single finger. “All the perfect ingredients for a very good, family-fun picture, yet what a disaster.”

“And by ‘all the perfect ingredients,’” another guard added, “Induna means of course that it had Mr. Adam Sandler.”

Induna waved the guard’s comment away. “This goes without saying.”

The third guard spoke up: “I did think the one you did about the train was very good.”

The Actor muttered, “Always with the fuckin’ train movie.”

The second woman laughed, looking at the other. “Train movie? The little man was in a porno?”

The second shook her head. “No, no. Not that kind of train. It was about this man, and he—”

“Enough with the movie summaries,” Induna shouted, drawing a flinch from everyone in the room. “Do you want to go work for IMDB?”

Two of the other women looked toward the third, who said softly, “They have not responded to my email queries.”

“Shut up, woman!” Induna said. He spun back around and addressed the two seated men. “I will grant the two of you that this New Zealand is a strange market. This is a place where they put meat inside pies, so who knows? Maybe their taste in movies is not like the rest of the world.”

“Sounds like a rational deduction,” Uncle Jerry said.

Induna stood. “Today, your buddy pirate picture will open in a dozen other markets around the world,” he said. Then he dropped his voice into a growl. “If this terrible film does as well in those as it did here, you will die.”

Within the hour, two of the guards had hauled Uncle Jerry and the Actor to Induna’s jet. For his part, Induna had taken one guard and gone to Hobbiton. Apparently, she’d found a coupon in the hotel lobby.

The two men were now in British airspace, twenty minutes from landing in Glasgow.

Uncle Jerry barked out a phlegmy cough. “Can you get me a bottle of water or something? I’m really—”

The guard next to the cockpit raised her rifle. “You will get nothing! Just fly the plane!”

“It’s just—”

“Do you want me to cut out your tongue? Do you?”

“No, I’m just saying—”

With a clacking sound, the woman pulled back the bolt of her rifle and pointed it directly at the pilot’s head.

His voice strained, the Actor called up to his friend, “Hey, man, I’ll get you something when we land. Just be cool.”

Uncle Jerry coughed again, twisting his fist into a spot on his chest. He then coughed more, making a horrible racking sound, and bent over.

The woman who’d been at the galley stepped forward with a very small bag of popcorn, bits of white dangling off her lip like fake snow in a Christmas window display. “What is wrong with him?”

“Nothing!” the other called back then dug the point of his rifle into Uncle Jerry’s head. “He’s just—”

“Oh Christ!” Uncle Jerry bellowed then tumbled out of the seat. His headphones clattered to the floor.

The plane pitched downward slightly, listing to the left.

“What is happening?” the riflewoman next to the Actor said, gripping a seat back to steady herself. “Stop this. Fix the plane!”

The other riflewoman began chattering again, shouting orders at Uncle Jerry the Actor knew he couldn’t possibly understand. Not just because they were in a foreign language. Uncle Jerry had collapsed.

He wasn’t moving.

The plane began to dip farther on the left side, and the guard near the fallen man yelped and jabbed the point of her rifle into his back. Still, the old man did not move.

“What is wrong with him?”

Bending down, weapon now shifted to her left hand, the guard shook the pilot on the shoulder but got no response. She flipped him over and slapped his face. Nothing.

“I, uh… I think he is having a heart attack,” the kneeling woman said to her partner.

“The plane is falling,” the other said, bits of popcorn flying as she yelled. “Do something!”

In a panic, the kneeling woman rolled the old man onto his back then leaned down to listen. After a few seconds, she looked up, her face a picture of horror.

“I do not think he is breathing.”

The Actor was gripping the armrests so hard his nails began to dig into the fake wood. “For chrissake, do something. He’s dying!” No one was more surprised than he was when tears began to fill his eyes. He said more softly, pleading, “Please, my friend is dying.”

The woman by the cockpit raised her rifle, this time pointing it at the Actor, who instinctively raised his hands.

“You! Fix him or you die.”

Once again, the plane jerked slightly, sending the second guard tripping to the far side of the cabin. The floor tilted like a carnival ride that had broken down.

“You heard him, actor!” the woman with the popcorn lips said then blinked, her eyes jetting from the cockpit to the man strapped to the chair. “You’ve got five seconds to get out of the chair and fix the old man. Ten seconds after that, I shoot you both!”

The woman by the cockpit sneered and shouted something at her partner, who then growled back. More shouting. They were now both pointing their weapons at the man in the seat.

“I’m up!” the Actor shouted. “Getting up. Don’t anyone shoot anybody.” He unstrapped the belt. “Especially me.”

The cabin lurched again, and the man in pirate attire had to brace his short legs against the listing of the plane as he ran gingerly to his friend. A moment later, he was bent over this friend.

The Actor whispered to himself, “Christ, I don’t even know what to do.”

“You have ten seconds to revive him,” the woman shouted, the engines gunning, shooting ice-cold panic through the Actor’s veins. “Or you will die before he does!”

He tried to recall the handful of plays, films, and shows that featured someone giving CPR, which was as close as he’d ever gotten to any sort of training. He’d never had to perform it himself, but he had seen it performed.

The Actor threw a leg over the fallen man’s hip. Now straddling him, he locked his hands together and began to give him chest compressions, as he’d seen done in the past.

Wait, wait!

There was the song! Yes! The compressions were supposed to be timed to that Bee Gees song.

“Fuck!” the Actor shouted. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He couldn’t remember which one it was.

“I need… do you…” he said, his hands splayed over Uncle Jerry chest. “What’s the Bee Gees song? The one you’re supposed to, you know, do CPR to?”

“What?” the woman behind him said.

Pissed off now, the Actor spun and glared at her. “Goddamn it, what’s the name of that Bee Gees song?”

With a scowl, the nearest guard said, “I don’t know any—”

“‘How Deep Is Your Love’?” the other woman said, cowering to the floor as she gripped a cabin lounger. The other two just stared at her, and she added, “From the 1977 Saturday Night Fever soundtrack.”

“What? No! Too slow, it’s—”

“Wait! Wait!” the woman behind him said then looked around the cabin sheepishly. “What about ‘Emotion’? The one they performed with Australian songstress Samantha Sang?”

“No, no, no!” the Actor shouted. “It’s like da-da-da-da… wait! I got it! I got it!”

The Actor spun back around and began giving compressions, muttering the song lyrics—at least the ones he knew—as he pumped at the old man’s chest.

“Da-da-da-da,” he said, his voice shaking. “Stay alive… come on, man. Stay alive.”

“That is not how the song goes,” the guard said as she pressed the barrel back into his neck. “This old man is not breathing! You need to breathe into his mouth!”

“I don’t think—”

“Breathe into the man!” she shouted, yanking the bolt back, which sent an unused shell pinging across the cabin. “Or I will stop your breathing!”

The plane dipped farther, throwing the Actor to the wall of the cockpit.

“The plane is going to flip over!” one of the women shouted. He didn’t know which.

On his hands and knees, the Actor climbed up the incline of the listing aircraft, dropped his head down, and saw actual tears drip onto his friend’s shirt.

We are going to die, he thought but then banished it from his mind. He had one shot and no time left.

He pinched Uncle Jerry’s nose, as he’d seen done many times, then pulled his chin down to open his mouth. Despite his imminent death, it took a moment for him to fight off the distaste for actually putting his mouth on the old man’s.

“Fuck it,” he said. He opened his own mouth and leaned down.

Sucking in a deep breath, he inched closer…

But then, something strange happened. And, at first, he couldn’t quite process it.

Uncle Jerry opened his eyes.

“Wha?”

“Hey, man,” his friend whispered. “No tongue, ’kay?”

“What?”

The old pilot then shot his foot to the side of the cockpit door to brace himself and wrapped an arm tight around the Actor, pulling him down onto his chest.

“Hey, he is not dead,” a voice rolled up from the rear of the plane. Before either guard could react, Uncle Jerry reached up and yanked on the pilot’s yoke, instantly pulling the plane out of the dive, and the craft pitched upward, sending the two others crashing to the back.

The old pilot shifted the Actor onto the back wall of the cockpit and shouted, “Close the door.” The other man did so quickly. Sparks flew from bullets shot wildly in their direction.

In one quick motion, Uncle Jerry was back into the piloting seat and strapping on the headphones, trying to regain control of the plane, which was beginning to sputter.

“Quick, quick,” he shouted to his friend. “Lock the door. There’s a latch! Pull it down!”

Once he heard the clank of the locking mechanism, he told the Actor to climb into the co-pilot seat and strap in.

Just as he did, the aircraft stalled, and they began tumbling uncontrollably to the earth. The plane now pitched forward, and two loud thumps resounded on the other side of the door as Induna’s guards smashed into the wall of the cockpit.

Outside the front windshield was a wide expanse of farmland, coming up fast.

“T-t-turn the plane back on, man!” the Actor shouted.

Uncle Jerry grunted. “Working on it.” His hands flying over the controls, he pulled levers and worked the pedals at his feet.

Behind them, the two women began banging on the door, shouting foreign curses.

But the bigger problem, of course, was that they were now low enough to make out the structures below, falling fast.

“Hey, man,” the Actor said, his eyes wide, “I can see cows!”

The old pilot grinned at him. “Cool, huh? I love farms. When I was a kid, a girlfriend of mine—”

“Just watch the road, man!” the Actor shouted.

The jet engines remained terrifyingly silent. The Actor was sure his own heart had stopped and only began to beat again in time with the putt-putt-puttering of the engines.

“That’s it! That’s it!”

Then the engines’ noise died out again, and the Actor fought every urge to shut his eyes. If he was going to die, he would do it staring death in the face. Then he thought, Fuck that, and squeezed them closed.

A second later, the engines came to life, and he was thrown back in his chair as Uncle Jerry yanked back hard on the yoke and the plane made a horrifically slow arc upward. The Actor cracked his eyes open.

He saw people working in a field of wavy yellow stuff that could have been wheat. He didn’t know—he wasn’t any sort of farmer, never even played a farmer, not once—but now the people below were looking up and waving their arms in the air in a panic.

“Gonna be close,” Uncle Jerry said, struggling to pull on the controls without once again stalling the plane.

Not knowing what else to do, the Actor made the sign of the cross, although he couldn’t remember whether it was supposed to be left to right or right to left. So he did it in the reverse direction, too, just in case.

If he was going to die, he didn’t want anyone on the other side pissed at him because he forgot the handshake.

A low moan bubbled out of his lips as the plane slloooowwwlly began to level out. Below, farm animals—sheep, pigs, yapping dogs—were all running out of the way, in every direction, until the plane finished leveling out.

Beneath the passengers, long grasses whipped against the bottom of the plane.

“Aaaaaaaaa!” the Actor shouted, pointing through the windshield at one creature that seemed oblivious to the oncoming jet. “Dude, dude, dude!”

“I see her.”

“Dude! Cow! There’s a—”

The plane rose but not before they heard a loud thonk! that jolted the craft slightly. Then, finally, they were heading back into the sky.

The Actor let out a huge breath and then began to laugh and weep at the same time.

“Ho-ly shit, man!”

“Yeah,” Uncle Jerry said, his face a mask of sadness. “If there is a cow god, I think I’m on shaky ground with their version of St. Peter. You know that’s the second one I’ve hit?”

Before the Actor could respond, he heard a single shot and then shouting once again outside the door. The plane’s engines were in full throttle, so it was impossible to make out the words, but the intent was clear.

Induna’s guards were trying to get inside.

The Actor spun his head toward the door. “Jesus, what are we going to do?”

“You like roller coasters?” Uncle Jerry said with a devilish grin.

“No.”

“Okay. Then you won’t like this very much.”

The nose of the aircraft pitched upward at an incredible angle, engines screaming, and just beneath that, the two men in the cockpit could hear the thup-thup of the guards, once again, being thrown to the back of the cabin.

“Hold on!”

Another bullet hit the cockpit door. The Actor pointed and shouted, “They’re going to shoot their way in!”

“Can’t. The door’s reinforced. All these babies have them.”

Then came more shots. And shouting.

The Actor could see only blue sky and a few stray puffy clouds out the windshield. He leaned over to see out the side window but couldn’t get enough height to see the ground again.

“Shouldn’t we land this goddamn thing?” he shouted over the din of the engines. “Why are you going up?”

Uncle Jerry winced, pulling his headphones down around his neck.

“That sucks.”

“What?” the Actor said, gripping either side of the co-pilot’s hand rests. “What, man?”

“Ears are getting sweaty. Hate that feeling.”

The Actor blinked. Another volley of shots peppered the door. This time, he could see dimples from the rounds.

“Jesus,” he said. “They’re going to shoot up the plane.”

Uncle Jerry turned to him and popped his eyebrows. “Yeah.”

“What? And that’s good?”

“Put your mask on.”

“What mask?”

The other man reached up above the Actor and flipped a latch. A collection of tubes and plastic fell, smacking him in the forehead. After a few panicked moments, he clasped the black cupping mechanism to his face and sucked in breaths.

“Why do we need these?” he said in a muffled voice.

More gunfire erupted behind them. Then all hell broke loose as the panicked guards unloaded their rifles, full automatic. The Actor twisted around in his seat as smoke billowed into the cockpit.

“Jesus, we’re on fire, man!”

“No!” Uncle Jerry shouted, his mask muffling his voice. “That’s probably from their guns.”

“They’re going to get in! That door is starting to look like a cheese grater!”

The pilot stared at a few dials then gazed casually down at the ground.

“Feel really bad about that bovine,” he said.

“Fuck the cow! Those guys are trying to kill us, man!”

“Yeah. Counting on that.”

More shots erupted, and then alarm bells started to fill the cockpit, warning lights flashing. An electronic voice was calmly telling them something the Actor couldn’t make out over the screaming engines and exploding gunfire .

“What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry!” Uncle Jerry shouted to him, putting up one hand. “They’ve just put a tear in the fuselage.”

“WHAT?” the Actor said and spun in his chair left then right. “Don’t worry that there’s a hole in the plane?”

Uncle Jerry wiped the back of his hand across his face, the sun starting to sting his eyes.

From what the Actor could work out, the guards had put in fresh clips moments earlier, but now fewer and fewer bullets snapped at the door. A few seconds later, they stopped altogether.

“Ran out of ammo,” he shouted over the torrent of the wind and scream of the engine.

The pilot shook his head. “We’re at twenty-two thousand feet, brother,” he said. “What they ran out of was air.”

Satisfied the guards were now immobilized, Uncle Jerry leveled the plane out again and worked a small screen to his left, searching for somewhere to land.

Over the next few minutes, he’d adjusted their flight path, dropping so low they could see the tops of trees nearly brush the underside of the plane.

The pilot and his friend stripped off their masks.

“Jesus Christ, you crafty old bastard,” he said, somewhere between laughing and crying. “You faked a heart attack?”

Uncle Jerry grinned and shrugged. “Had to do something, right?”

“Damn fine acting, my friend. And, you know, I’m a good judge of that sort of thing,” the Actor said then looked back toward the cockpit door. He wasn’t sure what state the two women back there were in, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t a very good one.

“I can’t believe it,” the Actor said. “I thought we were dead.” Then he punched Uncle Jerry’s arm, eliciting a laugh from him. “I thought you were dead, fucker.”

“Not yet!”

“What made you even think of that?”

“I remembered something Razzie said back when he was trying to help his girl out and had run out of options.” A warm smile came to the old man’s face, his eyes watering slightly. “When you run out of all the good ideas, ya try something stupid.”

“Let’s avoid that plan moving forward,” the Actor said. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re pretty low, man. Don’t hit any more cows.”

“I dunno. Starting to think maybe I got a subconscious dislike of them I never knew about. Maybe I was grass in a former life.”

Ten minutes later, Uncle Jerry had found an old airstrip, just dead weeds and dirt but flat enough that the Actor nearly bounced out of his seat only once. When he had, he’d heard a series of thumps in the cabin.

The plane finally stopped, and Uncle Jerry cut the engine. For a moment, they both just sat there, the shock of the last few hours settling over them. Induna wouldn’t know about the midair mutiny for at least a few hours. Maybe more depending on how good the cell coverage was over at the Hobbit theme park.

“He could already be flying back, you know,” the Actor said. “Which means if he’s in the air, he’ll be dark for at least a little while.”

Uncle Jerry eyeballed the dimpled cockpit door. “Maybe.”

The Actor nodded, his own gaze on the door. Finally, he sighed and said, “We better get this over with.”

But as he stood up, Uncle Jerry threw an arm out to stop him.

“Wait! If they’re back there and not… you know… they’ll be pointing their rifles at this door, and the moment it creaks open, blam-blam-blam!”

The other man looked around the cramped cockpit. “Any other way out of here?”

“No.”

“And every minute we stay in here is one minute closer to a van-load of Induna’s goons showing up here, right?”

“I dunno,” Uncle Jerry said, rubbing his chin. “Never was very good at math myself.”

The Actor reached for the handle to the cockpit. Then he saw a small fire extinguisher, grabbed that, and tucked it under his arm. He broke the seal and pointed the black hose toward the door.

“You open the door,” he whispered, “and I’ll blast the area with this.”

“Why?”

“For cover, man!” He squared his stance. “On three.”

“Okay. But what if there’s a fire later?”

The Actor squinted then shook his head and counted back from three. When he got to one, he pulled the handle, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Aaaaaaaa!” he shouted. “Take that, you—”

“Jesus, turn it off!”

“I’ll smoke ya out, you fuckers!”

“Turn it off, turn it off,” Uncle Jerry said then began to cough. When the Actor opened his eyes again, all he saw was white. Billowing, puffy white all around him. He could hear his friend hacking but, even just inches away, couldn’t make him out in the dense haze.

The small man blinked a few times to try to clear his vision as the fire retardant began to dissipate and rain on the floor.

Uncle Jerry was doubled over, trying to cover his mouth with a flight jacket. Then, the Actor noticed something he hadn’t expected.

“Why’d you close the door again?”

“Didn’t—” Uncle Jerry said and coughed some more. “Couldn’t get it open.”

“What?”

“Door’s locked.”

Struggling to get a full breath, the Actor growled, threw down the red canister, unlocked the door, and kicked it open.

Both men stood in the entryway as the scene began to clear of fog, and they saw a tableau of chaos. Magazines strewn everywhere, tiny empty pretzel packages, so many, were scattered all over the cabin. One of the guards lay in the corner of the room.

All the windows were frosted except for one.

“Looks like a stray bullet smashed the window. I was countin’ on that,” Uncle Jerry said and pointed where the glass had been. “That would have dropped the cabin pressure, sucked out the O2, and made this space colder than the dark side of the moon.”

With his eyes locked onto the woman on the floor, he walked toward the window with the missing pane.

“One bullet smashed through two plates of reinforced glass?” the Actor said. “I don’t think I wanna fly anymore.”

The other man scanned the room and said, “Oh.”

“Oh? Oh what?”

“Well, far as I can tell, a bullet ricochet may have cracked the glass, but that’s not what took out the window,” Uncle Jerry said, pointing around the room. “Just the one goon. So, goon number two musta, you know, been sucked out. Took the window with her.”

“Jesus,” the Actor said. As he got closer, he spotted specks of blood around the pane. “Hell of a way to go.”

“Sure, if her head got stuck, probably sucked the innards right out through the eyes and throat.”

“Okay, thank you for that!”

“If she was facing the other way, same result, different point of exit.”

“No more explanations!”

The Actor crept over toward the woman on the floor then quickly reached for the rifle and yanked it away. The strap that had been around her neck briefly lifted the head then banged it back on the side of the fuselage.

“I think she’s—”

The woman groaned.

In a quick move, Uncle Jerry grabbed the rifle and pointed it at the guard. He said, “Find something to tie her up with.”

“What, no!” The Actor took a step away. “Shoot ’er.”

“We ain’t gonna shoot her. Don’t be dumb.”

“She was going to shoot us!”

“Yeah, but that’s her job,” the old pilot said. “Just a normal work day for someone like this. But I ain’t shooting nobody who ain’t in the act of shooting at me first.”

“We don’t have the time. Any minute now, Induna’s people could come roaring up here, guns a-blazin’.”

Uncle Jerry smiled. “Ha, not likely! We landed in an area that’s hours from the nearest town. There’s no one out here for miles and—”

He stopped when he heard an engine in the distance getting louder and louder. The enemy was closing in fast.

“Miles and miles?” the Actor sneered then ran back to the cockpit. Presently, he emerged, holding the fire extinguisher again. He nodded over to the groaning woman. “You do whatever you’ve got to do to that one. We’ve got more coming!”

Uncle Jerry reached over and stripped off the kerchief from the man dressed as a pirate—“Ow!”—then ran over and began to wrap the cloth around the wrists of the guard, who was out cold. He struggled for a moment—the only real knots he knew were the ones that ended up on the tops of his shoes when he’d had to lace them up. Shoelace knots were one of the main reasons the man favored slip-ons.

Then, the strangest thing happened.

He heard a voice behind him that sounded familiar but, of course, was entirely impossible out here in the boonies of the Scottish lowlands. The knot above the woman’s wrists was now four times knotted, so he spun his head around to the door.

A man there said, “Hey, old-timer.”

* * *

We spent the next few minutes catching up, which was great. However, I was most interested in the bit about a film producer trying to kill them in some Scottish castle.

“I don’t think he was a moviemaker by trade,” Uncle Jerry said, his hand still resting on my shoulder. His smile stayed on his face as he looked me up and down. “Think he’s a warlord or something.”

“No,” our pirate-dressed friend said. “Independent filmmaker. They can be weird.”

“Well, I think your weird indie was Zulu.”

“Zulu? Zulu?” I stared at them. “You mean like Zulu, Zulu?”

“Stop saying ‘Zulu,’” the Actor said.

Uncle Jerry nodded. “Ol’ boy spoke Bantu and, to be honest, didn’t seem to care as much about making movies as, maybe, just making money.”

I crossed my arms and leaned back on my motorcycle. Or rather, Sally’s motorcycle. That thought put me in a funk again. I’d told them about losing her in the ocean.

“I have no idea where she is,” I said. “She could be out there dog paddling in the middle of the ocean. I think I only found you guys because I asked Boo to ‘find my friend,’ and he took me here.”

“Ha!” Uncle Jerry said and clapped his hands together. “You got yourself a bloodhound motorcycle! How about that!”

“Forget her,” the Actor said, sneering. “Crazy woman wanted to kill me. Serves her right.”

I shook my head, heat rising to my cheeks. “Nah, man. She’s a friend now and helped save your bacon last time.”

“She’ll be fine,” Uncle Jerry said. “You say she’s working for the Old Man, so she ain’t gonna drown. Worst case, she floats to the bottom and spends the next few months walking to shore!”

Over the next few minutes, I got them up to speed on my latest Devil’s quest. Four locations, four sat dishes.

“It’s always four,” the Actor said, absentmindedly.

“Probably big twentieth-century dishes,” I said. “I had a friend back in the nineties who used to work at an old laundromat. Spent all day watching Czech porn on the thing.”

“Bah,” the Actor said, waving his hand through the air. “Let Sally worry about that. We got the band back together, man!”

Again, I shook my head. “No way. She’s got a hellfire bullet in her that’ll burst in the next few days if we don’t sort out the comms network.”

“Leave it to the Devil to steal from the classics,” the Actor said, frowning. We just stared at him. He lifted and rolled his hands. “You know. John Carpenter. Snake Plissken.”

I turned to Uncle Jerry. “He still saying shit only he understands, yeah?”

“All the time.”

We heard a moaning from their plane and looked toward it.

“Gotta take care of that one,” Uncle Jerry said.

“And then we hightail it out of Scotland, man,” the Actor said. “Induna will be gunning for us. Literally gunning for us.”

“No can do, Captain Boozebeard,” Uncle Jerry said, clapping the Actor’s shoulder. “Our Razzie has a job to do, and we’re going to help. You said there’s four destinations, so where’s the first locale?”

“That’s why I’m here in Scotland,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out one of the thumb drives I’d been given. “A few hundred miles up the road.” Casting a glance back toward my ride, I added, “Should only take a minute or two.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Hood stared at the face of a man named Barclay, one of Friendbook’s pencil-necked data scientists, as it hovered in the middle of the largest screen around his penthouse apartment overlooking the pristine Northern California countryside.

“So, as you suspected, it seems Rasputin Frewer is on a job for the Old Man—”

“Oh my god, this fucking Rasputin guy!” Hood jumped up from his diamond-studded beanbag chair. “I can’t stand hearing about him anymore!”

“Yessir.”

“If we want to take down Lucifer and run Hell as it should be run, why are we bothering with this asshole? Just kill him!”

“Uh,” Barclay said, wiping his damp sleeve across his brow. “I mean, we can’t, of course. Raz Frewer is protected.”

“Protected.” Hood said the word like he was spitting out a piece of bad shrimp.

The Hooded One hated all this admin.

Being The Boss was supposed to mean ungoverned, overindulgent fun. His every whim serviced to its maximum potential because, come on, he was a billionaire! Why did the little people constantly nip at his ankles?

“But we can track his movements, thanks to some of our more aggressive acquisition runs,” Barclay said, eager to get back on track. “A member of his team has one of the translation apps we bought up last year.”

Hood sighed and rolled his hand.

“Right, these, you know, the novelty ones. Pig Latin to English, ABA Speak to English, Cockney to English—”

“Get to the point.”

“Right. Well, his crew has one, so we’ve tracked Rasputin to a remote part of Scotland. It’s mostly hardscrabble land and big rocks for hundreds of miles.”

“So?” Hood said, looking casually at his door. “He’s got a sadist for a travel agent. Boring me!”

“Sir, given the remote location, he’s likely going to one of Hell’s communication outposts.”

The Friendbook CEO grabbed a sparkling water from a small fridge behind a hidden panel, took a swig, and plopped back down into his beanbag chair.

“Well, we knew it would only be a matter of time,” he said. “They’re virtually blind without them, so it makes sense they would start to—”

“Sir, our analysts also think he may be after the identities of The Four.”

That got Hood’s attention.

He leaned forward, stuffing his hands into his hoodie’s pockets, and frowned.

“How does the Old Man even know about The Four?”

The researcher shrugged. “We’ve got spies. They’ve got spies. It’s no surprise—”

“Wait, wait!” Hood said, grinding his fists into his sides. He wanted to be angry. He liked being angry, but maybe Barclay wasn’t wasting his time after all. A small bubble of concern grew inside his roiling pot of anger. “What do they know?”

“It’s unclear.”

“How might this disrupt our plans?”

Barclay let out a breath. “It’s early days, and you’ve said Mr. Janus is working on an approach to the, uh, entities.”

“Keep that to yourself.”

“I have,” the man in the lab coat said, smiling. “Of course, always. But if Hell’s operatives do get intel on the Four, their names… sir.”

Hood nodded. The door buzzed, and he snapped his head toward a white light glowing above a small screen.

“Yes, yes, ‘names are powerful.’ Blah blah blah,” he said. The second buzz was longer, as though someone were leaning into the button. Hood lifted himself from the seat once again. “How would they go about getting the names? We’ve got all digital traffic filtered.”

A rapid nod. “At the communication sites. That’s outside our networks, so makes sense.”

Ambling toward the door, he tapped his lip with the edge of his thumb. “They’ve got four sites,” Hood said, frowning. Then he had an idea and smiled again. “What might be Rasputin’s final stop on this itinerary?”

“Well, our guys estimate that they would be traveling along the most efficient routes, time-wise.”

Hood slowly walked toward the door. On the screen, a woman and a young girl stared up at the security camera. He sighed.

“So,” Barclay continued, “if they are successful in restarting the comms in that part of the world, odds are they would leave the one in North America for last.”

“Fine, fine,” Hood said, squinted at the security screen then placed a thumb over the face of the grimacing woman. “Have them prepare The Isle for me. I’m taking a trip of my own.”

“Yessir.”

“And bring in, you know, those people.”

“Those…” the other man said then nodded slowly. “Yes. How many?”

“At least fifty.”

“Fifty?” Barclay smiled. “Great. Yes, can do. Now, transport from Belgium will take some time, so—”

With a flick of Hood’s wrist, the sweaty man’s face winked out. Hood leaned forward and pressed a white button above the screen by the door.

“We don’t want any.”

The frowning woman sighed then forced a smile onto her monochromatic face.

“Oh, my sweet brother,” she said. “Such wit.”

He pressed the red button next to the white and watched as his older sister and his niece stepped away from the frame and into the penthouse elevator. A minute later, they stood at his door.

“Hello, hello,” he said, letting them in. “Is it Tuesday already, Helen?”

His sister breezed past him and threw a pink backpack onto the nearby couch. “Sunday, but what do you care about days? You’re rich.”

“I am.”

“It’ll just be for the night,” Helen said. “And it’s a good chance for Izzy to get to know her uncle.”

The girl, whom Hood estimated was about thirteen now, looked around the room, gaping at all the screens. Without a word, she sat down next to her backpack on his couch.

He lowered his voice. “I can pay for a babysitter, Helen.”

“I don’t want a babysitter. She should be with family!”

“I can pay for a family, Helen.”

She frowned. All she did was frown.

“Izzy is fragile at the moment,” she said. “Be nice to her.”

Hood took a step back, tugging on the strings of his hoodie. “You never said anything about being nice.”

“Fine, fine. Just be less douchey, then.”

He shrugged, and Helen spun toward the door.

“You’re off to one of your wellness retreats, then?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

He grunted. “Is that just some euphemism for a place you can dry out?”

“Ha. Ha.” She shot a quick look at her daughter then back at Hood. “You know she signed up on your little friend platform.”

That stopped him. “What?”

“She’s old enough now. I let her get an account.”

“Why?” Hood said, his mouth hanging open for a moment. “Why… why didn’t you tell me? Why would you let her sign up on Friendbook?”

Helen shrugged back at him. “All of her classmates are on there, and she’s been struggling to make friends. It might help.”

It will not help! Hood thought. Jesus, if she was fragile before…

Hood turned back to the girl sitting on the couch, so small for her age. She looked like she the material was swallowing her. Quickly, he glanced around the room to be sure none of the myriad screens displayed anything he didn’t want anyone seeing.

A big one by the bar had the running MX count, rocketing upwards.

Another: the changing room of a female Swedish volleyball team.

A map with arrows and digital notations planning the takeover of the world.

Drone camera shot of Jennifer Connelly’s house.

He sighed. All clear.

Something slammed behind him, and he yelped, “Dafucklesticks!” Staring at the closed door and scowling, he realized he’d briefly forgotten his sister’s favorite way to leave a room. No goodbye. No wave. Just a slam.

When he looked back at Izzy, he noticed she hadn’t even looked up.

“So… uh, you want to watch a movie or something?”

She shrugged, engrossed in her phone.

“What’s your favorite?” he said, wiping his palms on his hoodie. “I have all of them.”

“Thanks, Uncle,” she said. “But I’ve seen everything.”

“Not my versions. There are some good films out there, but the endings are all wrong,” he said, the corners of his mouth jetting up into sharp points. “So I had them fixed.”

“Fixed?”

“You’ve seen The Lion King?”

She nodded.

“Fixed,” he said. “In mine, Scar wins.”

She frowned.

“And you should see the Harry Potter series,” he said, chuckling. “It’s so much better because Voldemort, totally misunderstood, kills Harry in the first movie.”

Her mouth hung open. “He does?”

“Had to hire screenwriters to fix the whole thing, and it wasn’t easy!” he said then frowned. “That idiot Radcliffe held out forever on the reshoots, but you know… I’m a billionaire! I always get my way.”

In the thunder of silence, Hood shuffled toward the couch and slowly sat down. At the far end. He glanced over at her phone.

“Oh, your mother told me you were… on it now.”

“I like the rankers and stuff.”

“Rankers?”

“Yeah,” she said and spun her phone toward him. “Of all the Disney princesses, it says I’m most like Ariel.”

“Ariel?”

“Yeah,” she said, focusing on the screen again. “From The Little Mermaid.”

Hood shifted in his seat, not sure where to put his hands. “Don’t, uh, maybe don’t do those rankers. Ever.”

“Why not?”

Because we hoover up all your data, all your friends’ data, and use algorithms to make you—

“Just sad,” Izzy said, out of the blue. “I dunno, it’s hard to make friends, you know?”

He shrugged. “No. I don’t have any. Troublesome. Always asking to help you move.”

“But I want friends! It’s just hard. And we move a lot.”

“Well, your mother has a hard time keeping jobs,” he said, offhandedly. “She’s very unpleasant.”

For the first time, Izzy showed him a hint of a smile, but it faded quickly. Hood then watched as the little girl seemed to shrink right in front of him, like a time-lapse of an old orange forgotten in the back of the pantry.

He swallowed, but it went down a little painfully. Something in his chest felt like it was trying to get out. The feeling puzzled him. Heartburn? What is that?

Hood put two fingers to his neck then wiped a thin, damp sheen from his brow. He tried to think of something to say, but even if he could muster up some comforting words, his mouth had turned dry.

The little girl sighed. “Just sad,” she said in a cracked voice. “You know what I mean?”

He wanted to say, “I don’t get sad! I’m a billionaire!” but didn’t.

“Just sad,” she repeated.

Something tickled his brain in an unpleasant way. He’d had an idea, and it felt all wrong, but he couldn’t help himself. Hood leapt off the couch and again wiped his hands down his hoodie.

“Back in a sec,” he said and forced a smile.

The Friendbook CEO burst from the room and walked down a short hall. He had to enter PIN codes on two steel doors. The third one was faster to get through. Retinal scan.

The elevator took him down two floors then opened to a room about the size of a two-car garage. He clapped his hands twice, and the lights awoke. Screens on the walls flickered to life.

On one of them, a technician looked toward his camera then went wide-eyed when he saw who was on the other end.

“Mr. Hood! Uh, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Where’s Barclay?” he said, leaning into the camera image.

“He’s, uh,” the tech said. “Finished up his sixteen-hour day, and I think he’s taking his wife to dinner.”

“Get him back!”

The young woman on the screen shifted in her seat. “It’s their anniversary dinner.”

“Anniversary of what?”

“Their marriage?”

“Stupid tradition.” He threw his hands up. “Never mind, never mind. I want you to find a new user named Izzy, quickly!”

Two more faces appeared on either side of the woman’s head. One of them said, “We need a little more to go on, sir.” He looked off to the side and quickly tapped an unseen keyboard with one hand. “We currently have 37,722 Izzys on—”

“Ugh! It’s—” he said, balling his fists. For a long moment, he stared at the floor, his face a portrait of painful concentration. Or he was fighting a shart. “Isidora! Yes, yes. Isidora!”

He was growing impatient, and the odd pressure in his chest was only getting worse.

“Four hundred and thirty-seven Isidoras,” the chubby man said. He grinned wildly and added, “Sir.”

“Isidora Hood, for chrissake!”

All three faces on the screen shrank back.

The first woman said, “You put your niece on—”

“No! No, I didn’t,” he said, spittle flying from his mouth. “But here’s what you’re going to do.” He started to speak but then stammered, like the words were gripping onto his teeth and tongue, afraid to be set free.

But he pushed through it and forced the words out: “En-enact the Rainbows and Kittens protocol on Isidora Hood’s page. Level twenty!”

They all looked at each other. The one who hadn’t spoken said, in what Hood thought was a German accent, “Level twenty?”

“Yes!”

The woman smiled broadly. “Sir, we only use the Rainbows and Kittens protocol to lift people just high enough so we can slam them down again. It’s very effective, an MX spike each time.”

“No, no! Don’t do that!” Hood shouted, the fingers on his hands splayed out like he was being electrocuted. “No slamming!”

“But we’ve never filled a newsfeed with just, um, level twenty,” the maybe-German guy added. “It could actually reduce—”

“Don’t argue with me!” Hood now sported a red face and bone-white knuckles. “Do it now. Or do I have to call Rupert?”

All three faces went white. Even the African American woman’s.

The vast majority of Friendbook’s research staff were far too busy for families, so most had a cat or dog or bird or turtle. Something warm and loving, waiting for them when they got home.

Rupert was a Pet Assassin.

All three nodded quickly. “Yes, yes, sir,” the woman said then shouted across the room. “Isidora Hood—level twenty Rainbows and Kittens. Stat!” Hood shifted from foot to foot as he waited. The woman on the screen then shook her head violently to someone far off camera. “Yes, yes. We know it will—just do it. Level. Twenty.”

When she turned back, she gave Hood a single nod.

“Good,” he said. Then he clapped twice again, turning off the room of screens. He hurried through the three doors, entering the required alphanumeric codes—different from the ones used to enter—and a minute later was back in his penthouse.

Opening the door slowly, he heard a strange, strange sound.

Izzy was laughing.

When she saw her uncle, she waved at him and pointed at her phone.

“You’ve got to see this video,” she said, hugging herself. “It’s the most adorbs thing I’ve ever seen!”

Hood stared and felt a buzzy feeling coming over him but did not cross the room. His head began to spin, and he had to sit down at a small table. He just watched Izzy as she swiped and tapped, her grin growing by the second. A new pain hit his chest, something different from before. Not wholly unpleasant, this one.

What the hell! I’ve got to send for a doctor when she leaves.

For the next few minutes, he sat in a stupor, listening to a song of giggles and delight. His head swam.

“Come sit with me!” Izzy said, her voice as bright as he’d ever heard it.

Slowly, Hood got to his feet and crossed the room. As he did, he noticed the young girl look back at the door from where he’d come. Confusion played on her face. Then she looked down at her phone, and when she lifted her face to her uncle, she smiled.

At him.

She smiled at him. A real smile.

Again, a wash of something so strange and strong came over him, he nearly tripped. When he sat down, the little girl shuffled closer to show him the video. He stared at it for a moment.

“Why is it doing that?” Hood said, his voice soft. “Is the cucumber about to attack it?”

“No, no, silly,” Izzy said and giggled. “Cats do not like cucumbers. It’s a mystery, even scientists don’t know why. But there are tons of videos, and we’re going to watch all of them to work it out!”

Hood felt a smile of his own bend his face as they watched another clip. An orange tabby caught sight of the malevolent vegetable and did a back flip, eliciting a beautiful laugh from his niece.

He turned to her. “Have we worked it out yet?”

“Hmm, it’s still not clear.”

“More videos?”

“More videos,” she said and fired up another.

As he watched, he felt something slip around his wrist. When he looked down, he was wearing a woven piece of fabric with an alternating pattern of pink and white.

Without looking away from the video, Izzy answered the unasked question. “It’s a friendship bracelet. Yours is pink and white, pink and white. Mine is white and pink, white and pink.”

“They look the same.”

“But different,” she said and beamed at him. Her smile faltered slightly. “I’ve been wearing both since I bought them, but I want you to have one. Is that okay?”

Hood could only nod.

“Good,” she said, eyes back to the video.

She giggled wildly again, their investigation ongoing. For nearly an hour, they sat like this, with him laughing so much his jaw hurt.

Then it stopped. And his niece said something under her breath, her dark tone returning. He felt a little drunk and asked her to repeat it.

“Oh, just…” she said in a low voice. “A few of the girls from school are posting about me again. There’s a video on here from recess when I fell off the monkey bars.” She sighed. “Oh, nice. That’s new. They’ve got these ugly little dolls they all collect. Very expensive. Mom won’t buy them for me.”

“I can—” Hood’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I-I can buy them for you. I can buy the factory. I can buy the people who work in the factory!”

“No, it’s all right. I don’t even like them,” she said, her voice monotone again. “The girls made a video reenacting my fall with the dolls. Shared it with the entire class.”

“What?”

She shrugged. “It’s all right.”

Hood stood up, his legs moving with minds of their own, and he strode back to the doorway he’d just come through. His face was flushed and his hands were trembling as he typed in the code for the door once again. It took three tries to get it right.

Izzy caught the look on her uncle’s face and gave him a sad smile. “Don’t worry, Uncle Hood. It’s all right,” she said. “I’m used to it.”

“These classmates,” he said, scowling. “What are their names?”

* * *

Minutes later, thirty-four miles away, two teenage girls were consoling each other over their video app from their respective bedrooms.

“But how can they even do that?” one said, sniffling, her eyes red. “I thought everyone loved that show!”

“I’ve got it too,” the other said, her cheeks damp. “And I was sure Posh School Pony Club would be on forever and ever!”

“Those bastards!” The first girl leaned into her screen. “They’re not even going to finish the season. Something… about photographs found on one of the actors’ computers. How did—?”

“Wait, wait! What? No!” the other said. “How could…?”

“What? What?”

“Oh my god, oh my god! You know those Wyld Girlz dolls I’ve been collecting?”

“You’ve been collecting?” the first girl said, scowling. “I’ve got more than you! And Daddy’s got an order in for the next one! You can’t even buy it yet, but—” She stopped as she saw her classmate dragging her finger down the screen, tapping, then dragging again. The other girl wore a look of pure horror. “What? What is it?”

“It…” the girl said, tears filling her eyes again. “This article says they’ve been discontinued.”

“WHAT? Send that to me!”

She shook her head. “I’m trying. It… Oh, no. Oh-no-oh-no-oh-no. This is so not happening,” the girl on the screen said.

“What-what-what?”

The girl with the big white bow tapped and swiped at her screen again to send a link to the Friendbook post she was just reading. She tapped harder, grimacing, and then growled. “How did…? I’ve lost my sharing rights. When did that happen?”

“Use your words, Brittney,” the other said. “Just tell me what the article says!”

The bow girl shook her head, her voice hollow.

“Our school system has banned Wyld Girlz dolls.”

Both burst into tears again, speaking over each other in blubbering, incomprehensible outrage.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

The Actor kicked me a few times and then swore as he shifted his weight behind me. He was riding pillion, the motorcycle version of “shotgun.”

“How much farther? My ass hurts,” he shouted over the wind whipping past us.

Someone had written coordinates to each location onto masking tape wrapped around the four thumb drives. Very high tech. After I’d plugged the nearest one into the bike’s GPS, we’d gotten there in just minutes.

Uncle Jerry had stayed behind to find something to board up the blown-out window of Induna’s jet so we could use it to get to the second site. Of course, he also had to work out what to do with Induna’s guard. I tried not to think about that.

Finally, Boo slowed down, and the world around us became clear again. But there was nothing out here. Just Scottish lowlands. Or highlands—I really didn’t know the difference.

We were racing along a dirt track that ran up the side of a grassy hill, and once we reached the top, the bike stopped. In front of us stood a stone structure. Like literally stone—boulders and rocks, big and small, made up the walls of a place that looked not much bigger than a four-bedroom house.

When I got off the bike this time, I kept my feet. The Actor, not so much. However, instead of his usual cursing, he jumped up from the ground a moment later, a goofy smile splitting the whiskers of his fake beard.

“And the hat stayed on!” he said, then his expression darkened. “What the hell is this place?”

“Dunno,” I said as the motorcycle threw out its own kickstand and leaned. At first, the metal bar began to sink into the dirt lot, so it straightened out and eased back a few inches, and its center stand came down.

Smart bike.

“There’s a sign up top, but I don’t know what language that is. Is that Gaelic?”

“Do I look like I speak Gaelic?”

“No, you look like a kid’s medieval nightmare,” I said, teasing him. “Why are you still wearing that?”

“In for a shilling, in for a pound, matey,” he said, walking beside me, his costume scabbard banging rhythmically against his leg. “Look. It’s all worn down, but you can make out the letters.”

He’d pointed at the top of the wall, just below a thatched roof. All along the building, the stone was carved with some type of symbols. I actually knew what they were.

“Runes.”

“Rain does that over time. Made the Grand Canyon, you know.”

“What?”

“Water, rain. Wears it down,” he said, scratching his nose with the tip of his fake sword. “Ruins everything.”

Realizing that he’d been using the blade to hide his smile, I turned toward him slowly.

“Dude.”

“Just, you know,” he said, his face contorting slightly. “It’s just all so, um, ruined. Water rui—”

“I got it,” I said and walked way.

“Come on!” he shouted behind me. “That’s funny!”

When we got just ten feet from the door, the Actor stopped and raised his arms, stumbling a half step back.

“Oh my god. It’s… a bar.”

“What? No. It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“Definitely a bar. Or pub. Or whatever Scottish people call these magical, magical places!”

I scanned the front of the building.

“Doesn’t look like a bar,” I said, scrunching up my nose. “Looks like Gandalf’s summer home. If he hated summer.”

“Bar.”

“How do you know it’s a bar?”

The Actor stepped forward, arms outstretched like those of some boozy zombie. “Because, my chubby friend, I am engorged.”

“Gross.”

When he pressed on the big wooden door, it swung open, and he raised his hands like he’d just cast some spell. And beyond the door was, sure enough, a bar.

Of course, this place didn’t look like some midtown watering hole serving up chicken fingers and potato skins. There were no factory-weathered Old Style beer signs or the sort of kitsch that even Storage Wars losers might toss in the garbage.

First off, the place smelled like a foot.

And not a good foot. It was the smell of a foot that would require serious dedication from a cash-strapped surgeon trying to pay off a second mortgage. Or maybe an amateur taxidermist.

Instead of beer signs, cloth banners draped the place like curtains on the windowless walls.

Behind the bar, dozens of steins hung on wooden pegs for the regulars who might come in after a long day of making whiskey and flirting with sheep. But the rest was the sort of stuff they used to put on D&D cards.

Old swords dented, bent, and rusted. Shields and helmets in similar shape. And then a whole array of shit—I had no idea what the stuff was—just a bunch of twisted metal and stained leather and aged wood.

A massive man behind the bar—the dude’s biceps looked as big as my head—polished a pewter mug lazily. He’d swiveled his head over to us as we’d walked in and watched as I gawked at all the strange stuff on the wall.

Then, he frowned at me. Or smiled. It was hard to tell on the guy. He had one of those faces.

“Who are you?”

Before I could say a word, the Actor strode up to the bar with a grin so large, I was pretty sure he could taste earwax.

“Barkeep, we are weary travelers in search of drink,” he said, placing a hand on one of the five wooden stools at the bar. The look on the bartender’s face made him pause. “I’ll have any liquid that requires you to keep it away from an open flame. My friend most likely has a hankering for a warm glass of milk. Goat will do.”

“Shut it,” I said to him.

“Aye, but ya still haven’t answered me question,” the bartender said, throwing the mug into a basin. “And we got a rule about pirates, even fancy ones like ya’self. Don’t allow ’em.”

A low, non-committal grumble came from the dozen or so patrons in the bar, some nodding in agreement.

“So,” the man continued, “why don’t you—”

“Ha!” the Actor said and pulled off his tricorn hat, tucking it under his arm. “No, no. I am no pirate, me matey.”

The big man scratched a spot on his beard, which looked like a nest of discarded, half-rusted wires glued to his face. Pretty sure that was how he sharpened his nails. He looked the Actor up and down.

“Ya look like a pirate.”

“Oh, no. I’m an actor.”

The customers around the bar all came to life, some shouting, some pointing. I even saw a few of them reach inside their coats, and I didn’t think they were going for their wallets.

“That is…” my friend said, the smile still plastered to his face. “Ah, well, a good actor. Not an actor actor, heavens no, but one who acts in the, you know, good faith and betterment of mankind.”

A gruff but slightly higher-pitched voice threw an insult toward my friend.

“And womankind. People-kind,” he said. “Whatever.”

The bartender put his two meaty hands on the wood bar in front of him, leaning in.

“Ya still have not told me who ye are.”

Before the Actor could say something that unquestionably would have gotten us killed, I stepped forward.

“Like he said, we’re just, um, travelers,” I said. “My name is Rasputin Frewer, and this is—”

“Rasputin?” the big man said then straightened up. “Rasputin Frewer, you say?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“So, Rasputin Frewer,” the bartender said, crossing his arms. He looked at one of the few empty spots up on the wall behind him. A lone wooden peg. “Ya come to bring my lamp back?”

* * *

We’d finally been allowed to sit at the bar and were both served brown liquid in short glasses. I didn’t want to ask the guy what it was, but it didn’t have any bubbles, so I didn’t think it was beer. I took a sip and quickly felt my scalp twitch.

“Uff dah,” I said and put my drink down.

The Actor guzzled his then pointed at his empty glass.

This bartender had introduced himself as Víðarr. I always felt that when the letters of your name required fancy umlauts and wavy lines over them, it made you kind of exotic. But not the kind of exotic he’d been claiming.

When the big man stepped away to help another patron, the Actor said out of the side of his mouth, “You buying this? This Viking bartender is a demigod?”

“Why not? I mean, we’re on a quest to fix the Devil’s cable, man. The world is weirder than I ever thought.”

The lamp Víðarr had referred to was the one I’d gone to collect the previous year. After I had it, the pieces of it had scattered across the world following a terrifying face-off with the Ralph Macchio version of the Devil. That lamp was a powerful, ancient artifact. Not powerful enough to save my Cassie, though.

It did save me, baby. You saved me with it.

You still died.

There are many different types of saving.

I sat and just nodded.

The big bartender came over, wiping his gorilla hands on a dirty bar towel that he then slung over his shoulder. The Actor started to speak, and I kicked him under the seat. He clamped his mouth shut.

Víðarr said, “So, what’s the Old Man want now?”

“I, well… what?”

He pointed at me. “I can see ya working for the old bastard just by looking at ya face. Never could quite get used to that.”

The Actor spun toward me. “Oh, gross. You got the face thing going on? Nasty.”

I’d forgotten about that. Those who contracted to the Devil were—well, I supposed the technical word for it was demons. But, but I wasn’t really one of them.

Imagine if you’d just landed in Brussels on some connecting flight to one of the various cold, white, angry countries in Scandinavia. Sure, you’d technically be a Belgian at that point, but you wouldn’t necessarily have the shifty eyes and murderous tendencies of your everyday Belgian.

You just happened to be there. But that association, even brief, got you the label.

Someone had explained to me that a strange arrangement between the two factions of Hell allowed either side to see them for what they “really were.” Demons—or at least the earthbound version of them—look like hideous molting zombies. Gashed skin, blood, dark eyes. The whole bit.

What Víðarr said seemed true, the demigod bit, because while he could see my inner skin irritation, he didn’t look all ghoulish and horrible to me. If he’d been working for Hell or Hell inc., he would have.

“Yes, well… the Old Man has sent me on another little trip.”

“Oh!” Víðarr said in a low, excited voice. “A quest, is it?”

“Yes, yes, not a huge fan of that word because, you know, I’m not a hobbit.”

The bartender nodded at my friend. “Is he?”

The Actor scowled. “Watch it, buddy.”

He shot my friend a glance and then roared with laughter. “No offense to you intended, halfling. I am a big fan of the little people.”

My friend’s entire body began to flex, so I tried to turn the conversation back to our, uh, quest.

“The Old Man says somewhere around here is, well, a communication device. Probably a big ol’ satellite dish, but I can’t see—”

“Ah, yes, we have one of those,” Víðarr said, looking less interested. “Sometimes I put feed in it for the wolves now. Hasn’t been working.”

“Right, right,” I said. “We’re here to get it up and running again.”

The Actor held a hand up in my direction, staring at the big man. “You have wolves?”

“Aye.”

“Why do you have wolves?”

“They’re my pets,” he said, smiling warmly. “And they eat anyone who don’t pay their tab.”

“We’ll pay up,” I said, trying to regain control of the conversation. “But first, can you take us to the dish? I’ve got this thumb drive. All I have to—”

“Ooohh,” Víðarr said. He took a step back and leaned against the back of the bar. “You want to go through… The Door.”

“Um, well, wherever the dish is, yes, we’d like—”

“Aw, mate, ya can’t just walk through The Door. A man must earn his passage.”

The Actor frowned. “I ain’t washing dishes.”

“No, my halfling friend,” Víðarr said and grinned. His teeth looked like tombstones. “You must earn passage through The Door in the old ways.”

The Actor’s frown deepened. “I ain’t selling my body.”

“No, no, not that old way,” the big man said. Then he looked around the room and yelled out some word in a foreign language to get all the patrons’ attention.

“My friends!” he said, his voice booming around the tiny tavern. “We have a new challenger.”

The Actor and I looked at each other, mouthing “challenger” as a cheer rose around the room. The patrons leapt from their seats and moved tables and chairs toward the walls.

Before we could ask, Víðarr shouted, “Prepare for combat!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Captain Hamish Clark sucked in another breath of fresh sea air, tapping his shoe on the deck of his ship.

One of his crewmen sidled up next to him, handing him a clipboard with details of “the event,” but he’d read through all the data already. After a quick glance, he handed back the clipboard.

“We won’t know anything more until the net comes back up,” he said.

The sailor shifted from foot to foot, staring out at the bubbles from the specialized drone sub, fresh out of its crate. That was what most pleased Hamish. Getting to use the new tech. Of course, these Atlantic war games were supposed to be all drills, which were usually tedious.

However, with what they’d seen on the video footage from the initial sweep? This experience had suddenly gotten far less tedious. And one hundred times weirder.

“You think, sir, this is safe?” the crewman said.

Hamish, who hadn’t realized the man was still there, turned to him and offered only a scowl.

“I don’t mean to question your order, sir. I’m sorr—”

“Nah, mate. We need questions,” the captain said. “It’s a fool who thinks he’s the only one with the best plan.”

The sailor let out a long breath.

“So?”

Hamish put the binoculars to his eyes, sighing. “But pestering we don’t need. Heard ya the first time.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“To answer your question, though, I have no idea if it’s safe.”

“But to bring the entity this close to the ship—”

“Entity?” Hamish dropped his spyglass, chuckling. “You’ve been reading the Jeremy Robinson novels in the canteen, haven’t ya?”

The crewman took half a step back and lowered his head.

Over the loudspeaker, a voice reported that the drone sub was three minutes away and that those on the starboard side of the ship should be at the ready. Hamish frowned, staring up at the big metal speaker over his head.

“I don’t want anyone firing at ‘the entity,’ sailor,” he said. “In fact, have everyone stand down. General quarters.”

“Stand down, sir?”

A sigh. “Starting to wonder if you understand the definition of pestering, mate.”

With a salute, the other man took off. A moment later, the shipwide call instructed the crew to keep their arms stowed and reported that the sub was now just one minute from returning with the target in its net.

Hamish stepped up to the rail and looked down, trying to peer into the black waters of the Atlantic. For the first time in months, he had that exhilarating mix of anticipation and fear. Fear was healthy, he’d always reassured himself.

Bravery is not the lack of fear; far from it. Doing the job despite mounting fear is what makes one brave.

“Sir!”

The captain yelped. “Crikey, don’t sneak up on me!”

The young petty officer apologized and grabbed the rail next to her boss.

“Do you really want to bring whatever that is on board?” she said, doing him the courtesy of keeping her voice low. “We don’t really know what it is.”

He laughed. “You saw the footage like me, didn’t ya? We know what it is.”

“It could be, you know, a trick.”

“A trick?” he said. “If it is a trick, then whoever’s behind it has a brilliant sense of humor. I wanna meet ’em.”

The drone had reached the side of the ship. He watched as the giant metallic arm, just twenty feet down the deck, swung over and locked onto its hull. The whirr of its electric engine lifted the sub out of the water.

He heard the unsnapping of the petty officer’s sidearm.

Without looking, he said, “You pull out that weapon, and the most dangerous thing you’ll be holding for the rest of this tour is a dirty mop.”

She resnapped the clasp and took a half step back from the rail.

Fully retracted, the sub was secured into the arm’s coupling. The only sound now was its winch, pulling up the net.

The captain knew he was taking a chance. What he’d seen on the video, of course, was impossible. But—he smiled at the thought—he’d seen his fair share of impossibility while out on the big drink.

When the netting began to rise to the surface, its haul only a dark shadow inside, he took a step back from the railing. Part of him absolutely wanted to reach for his weapon, but that was the fear talking. Hamish squared his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back.

Finally, the motor of the winch dropped an octave as its capture was lifted out of the water.

“Sir!” the petty officer said and took another step back.

The captain put on his best smile.

Sally Scull, however, was not smiling. Dripping wet and clearly in a terrible mood, she had pushed both arms through the netting and was pointing her six-shooters at the man in front of her.

He nodded and said, “G’day.”

Sally said nothing, her scowl deepening.

“You’re a funny one,” Hamish said, stepping forward. When the gunslinger raised her pistols higher, he raised his hands, still smiling, and stepped back. “Listen, I’ve got a few questions if you’re done blowing bubbles on the bottom of the ocean. How ’bout you come aboard and get dry, yeah?”

The look on the woman’s drenched face wavered briefly, but the scowl returned.

“I ain’t answering any of your questions, limey.”

Hamish laughed and looked at the officer next to him. “No wonder she’s hostile. She thinks we’re Brits.” He then turned back to the woman wrapped in the thick netting. “How about a trade, then, yeah? You answer a few questions, and I’ll give you a towel, and you and me will split a bottle of the good stuff. Been saving it for the right occasion.”

The captain noticed the woman’s pistols drop just a little.

Finally, she said, “Whiskey?”

“Nah, mate. Tequila!” Hamish said, popping his eyebrows. “One hundred percent blue agave. Got it from a friend in Mexico some years back.”

Sally suddenly hunched forward, dropping her arms. Hamish noticed one of her hands went to a red glow emanating from the side of her belly. When the captain stepped forward, he saw a blur. She was pointing a pistol at him once again.

“Crikey, you’re fast!” he said, his hands on the rail. “How long it’d take you to learn that?”

She sighed and dropped her arm again.

“About a hundred years,” she said, wincing. “I don’t like your deal, mate.”

“All right.”

“I want two towels.”

“You got it.”

“And I ain’t splitting the tequila with you,” she said, her voice strained. “One bottle, no glass. You got that?”

The captain nodded once.

She holstered her weapons then gripped the netting with her fingers. One of her hands was soaked with blood.

“Tequila, huh?” Sally said, “You got any limes on that shitty boat of yours?”

His smile was back, bigger than ever.

“What limey would be without ’em?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The people in this little faraway pub, mostly guys but a few women, all looked like the sort of folks Chaucer might have described as highwaymen. Or what Dante may have envisioned as “locals.” As I watched them stack the last remaining furniture against the walls, I realized why the place, small though it was, was stuffed with patrons.

This rough crew wasn’t here for the swill. The beer came from taps with no logos, the liquor all from bottles with no labels. I assumed ol’ Víðarr made all the brew himself. A demigod who spends his retirement as the local home brewer, selling his high-octane stuff at a premium price.

No, they were here for this.

That was why they’d all jumped up with such practiced enthusiasm. At this place, if you wanted to get into whatever magical shit was in the special-access room, you would have to do battle. A public spectacle.

“I don’t wanna do this,” I muttered, staring at the mass of leather-clad drinkers who’d collected on the other side of the room. “Nobody said there’d be fighting.”

“Combat,” the Actor said, smiling at me. “I believe the word the bartender said was ‘combat.’”

“Not helping, man.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said and turned toward me. For whatever reason, he started straightening my coat out and brushing off my pant legs. Like he was the old Popeye-looking dude who was Rocky Balboa’s cornerman. “He can’t kill you, right?”

“How do I know?”

“You’ve got that, you know, voodoo Devil protection. Even if the guy breaks your neck, you won’t die. And if he did break your neck, you would finally get a look at that fat ass of yours. Just swivel it around.”

“Not helping, man.”

Walking from behind the bar, Víðarr carried an old wooden box, dusty and gray. The only sign that the box was wood was the presence of a few splinters dangling off its edges. Otherwise, any traces of grain had long since been rubbed away.

“That’s an old box,” I said.

“Ah, don’t knock old box,” the Actor said. “Often much better than new box.”

I turned and growled at him. “Will you shut up!”

“You know I kissed Helen Mirren once?”

“Enough,” I said through gritted teeth but then spun back to him. “Holy shit, you kissed Helen Mirren?”

His eyes became as wide as his smile.

“Dude,” I said.

“Dude,” he said.

Víðarr set the box on a long, battered shelf next to the door.

“We will now bear witness to that which was before. This is the old way.”

The crowd across from us said, “Glory to the old ways.”

The demigod continued to speak, like a priest reading from a holy text. The dozen or so others packed together would offer up a chant, a call and response. Then I began to realize these weren’t just locals drinking shitty booze.

Like the owner, they all looked around middle age but had a world-weariness to them that suggested they had been alive for much, much longer. Middle Ages might be a better description.

Could they be like him?

Was this a bar of gods?

Or, um, demigods. Whatever the difference was. I figured the “demi” part only meant they couldn’t smite. Maybe it was like the triple-A league in baseball.

Either way, what chance did a mortal have against that?

I looked up as Víðarr took whatever had been in the box and plopped it down on the shelf with a thunk. The object looked like a barbell made of dirty glass.

The preacher part of the show now done, he got to the rules of engagement.

“When there is no more sand in the top globe, combat is over,” the demigod bartender said. “Whoever has landed the most blows is the winner.”

“Cool,” the Actor said to me, enjoying this far too much. “You just gotta blow the guy.”

I clenched my fists, wondering if the rules prevented me from hitting my own cornerman. Usually, I could tolerate the guy’s ribbing, but a demigod was about to tear me limb from limb! Did he have to smile so damn much about it?

The owner turned toward the crowd.

“Who will step forward to face our challenger?”

The group chuckled as they began to part. From the back, someone was moving. All I could see at first was just the top half of the guy’s head. Of course, it had to be the biggest, most horrifying guy in there.

“I am Vali,” the monster of a man said. “And I accept my part in combat.”

Víðarr turned to the crowd. “And who speaks for Vali?”

A woman stepped forward, dressed head to toe in brown leather and dull metal clasps. She had raven-black hair. Her sleeveless outfit revealed muscles that would have made Schwarzenegger jealous. And afraid.

“I present to you Vali,” she said, her voice booming. “Son of Odin and Rindr. Avenger of Baldr, vanquisher of Hoor. If he were to fall today, his place in the next world would be seated at the right hand of our cherished Wanderer.”

The crowd all bowed slightly and said, in unison, “Vali, may you wield the strength and honor of your great house.”

With a wide grin, Vali looked up, lifted an arm, and pointed in our direction. His finger looked like a bratwurst.

“I’m definitely going to die,” I muttered.

Víðarr turned to us and spoke.

“Bring forward the challenger!”

I took a deep breath and stepped forward, but then something strange happened. The entire room fell silent. After a second or two, a murmur bubbled through the crowd. The demigod bartender raised his hand to the people, patting the air.

“Of course, of course,” Víðarr said. He cleared his throat. “Rasputin Frewer, you are under the protection of the Old Man, are you not?”

“Uh,” I said, shrugging. “Well, I, you know, do odd jobs for the guy sometimes. I mean, if you mean do I work for him, I mean, yeah.” Then I brightened. “Does that give me, um, protection?”

Víðarr once again silenced the crowd across from us.

“We have no quarrel with Lucifer and don’t wish a war with Hell,” he said. “You will not fight here today.”

“Cool!” I said and took a step back. “I can work with that. Go protection.” I looked at the crowd. “Amiright?”

They stared at me blankly.

But then I realized they weren’t staring at me now.

Following their gaze, I lowered my eyes and tracked them toward the dwarf actor dressed in the movie pirate outfit. The formerly jovial expression on his face collapsed. Like Jenga in an earthquake.

He said one word: “Wut?”

Víðarr fell back into his combat-controller mode and bellowed. “Step forward for the challenger!”

“Wut?”

The gaze of the drunken demigod horde shifted from the Actor to me. My head spun. We were just there to, you know, put a little thing into a thing to fix the other thing. How the hell had something as simple as that turned into a battle to the death?

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” the Actor said.

As if compelled, I started to take a step forward, but someone yanked me back.

“I don’t wanna do this,” the Actor said in a low and strident voice.

“Man, I don’t want you to do this either. But if we don’t, they won’t let us past The Door.”

“I don’t even want to go into their sacred room! I don’t care what’s back there. They can keep it.”

“We’ve only got a few days, man,” I said, bent down, whispering. My eyes scanned the anxious crowd. “If we can’t get all of the Old Man’s dishes sorted out, Sally will die.”

He squeezed the sides of his head. “I am about to die! What about me?”

“You’ll be fine. Just, you know, run away from the guy until the time runs out.”

“Wha... run away?” He swept his hand around the tiny bar. “Where? There’s nowhere to go!”

He took a step back and called out to the master of ceremonies.

“Yo, Voldemort—”

“Víðarr,” the man said.

“Yep, so, I ain’t doing it. I forfeit.”

The demigod raised an eyebrow. “Cowards die. Forfeit is death.” A few voices bubbled up from the group. “Oh, aye, yes. And then banishment to the eleventh realm.” Another voice. “Twelfth? I can’t recall. Either way, bad way to spend eternity.”

I looked at my friend and pointed at Víðarr. “See? Bad idea.”

“Eternity?” the Actor said, his voice weak.

“Yes, nothing,” the buff bartender said. “Totally alone in a void without light, without sound, without touch, without smell, and devoid of all joy.”

“Sounds like the summer I spent in San Bernardino,” the Actor said, blinking slowly. “Except the smell bit.”

I spun around, facing him.

“Listen, man.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “You’re my best friend. I’ll think of something. For now, just delay the guy as much as you can. Run around. You’ll be faster than him because he’s big as a mountain.” I cast a glance at Vali then looked back. “Range. Big mountain range.”

“That’s not helping!”

Slowly, I turned around, facing the crowd. I realized, again, they were all looking at me. Víðarr extended his arm, his palm open.

Oh. Right.

I was the Speaker for the Challenger. Me, I never liked speaking in public. Sure, the radio was fine—I was a DJ for years—but back then, I never had to see all those eyeballs staring back. For a brief moment, I actually wished I could change places with my friend.

I took a few steps into the center of the room and cleared my throat, my mind blank. Then a thought occurred to me. I slipped my hand into my jacket and pulled out my phone, tapped at it a few times.

“The Challenger is a master craftsman! He has enchanted millions, able to transform himself from one being to another.”

Another murmur arose on the other side of the room. I continued.

“You may have seen him portray the Dwarf King, who’d conspired to eliminate his entire family to take the throne.”

A collective gasp. Then a few words bubbled over to us: “Brutal!” “Savage!”

I glanced back at the Actor. A small smile crept to his face.

A woman shouted, “Derivative!”

His smile fell.

I cleared my throat. “He rendered himself into the form of a plucky next-door neighbor in a made-for-TV production with Demi Lovato... and was a runner-up in the MTV Movie Awards for Best WTF Moment.”

“I was robbed,” my friend murmured behind me.

“He also appeared as a train station worker, a lonely wanderer with a broken heart.”

A collective “Awwww” bubbled up from the crowd. Another voice said, “I really liked the train one.”

The voice behind me again: “Fuckin’ train movie.”

Of course, the brute of the man who’d stepped forward to fight the Actor looked unimpressed. He crossed his massive arms, which looked like intercontinental undersea telephone cables wrapped around a thousand-year-old oak tree.

“And, I’ve just learned recently,” I added, holding up a finger. “He once kissed Helen Mirren.”

Gasps.

A female voice cut through the din: “He kissed a god?”

“Really?” Vali’s arms fell to his sides, and he cut his eyes at the Actor. “On the mouth?”

The Actor briefly looked smug. “Well, I started there.”

More gasps.

Víðarr waved his arms in the air, willing the crowd silent. I stepped back and tried to smile at my friend. Once again, he was risking his life for some stupid quest of mine. I was a dangerous man to befriend.

“Before time begins, we will have the precepts,” our host explained. “One for each opponent, and”—he looked at the Actor—“it cannot be anything like ‘no killing’ or ‘no hitting.’ There will be a battle tonight.”

The roughnecks on the other side of the room erupted with cheers.

“Vali, you have the Champion’s honor of going first,” Víðarr said. “Although I expect we all know what yours is.”

The big man uncrossed his arms again and grinned. For effect, the asshole even dropped to one knee. Even down half his size, he was still taller than his opponent. I heard a gulp next to me.

“Mine is as it always has been and always will be,” he said, delight dancing in his eyes. “I will give you a free shot. Right here.” He pointed at his full beard. “Because it will be the only hit you will get, and I would not wish a combatant to go to their death without at least this.”

The crowd behind him laughed.

“Now the challenger.”

The Actor stumbled on his words then waved me down.

“What the fuck is a precept?”

“Um, rule. You get to make a rule,” I said quietly. “But like the scary bartender said, it can’t be anything that prevents combat.”

“Oh,” he said then snapped his head up. “Okay, no hitting the face.”

The room was silent.

I put my hand over my eyes and mumbled, “Really?”

“I am an actor, Raz,” he said, stiffening. “Have to protect my most valuable asset.”

Víðarr took one step forward and set the precepts: “For Vali, he will allow one blow. For the Challenger... no hitting the face.” He couldn’t keep the smile from bending his lips. Everyone but the two of us howled with laughter.

“Step forward!”

I patted my friend on the shoulder and said, “Good luck, man.”

He pulled his tricorn hat tighter to his head and, slowly, walked toward the bigger man. The much, much bigger man. Scratch that—the much, much, much bigger man. The Actor looked back at me over his shoulder, as if for the last time.

“Your time begins...” Víðarr gripped the ancient hourglass and flipped it over. “Now!”

“Time out!” the Actor yelled, softly banging an open palm on the top of the fingers of his other hand, making a T symbol. “I need to get into character.”

Vali had both arms cocked, but he was frozen in place, one foot in front of the other, like a lion on the verge of pouncing caught in a National Geographic photograph. Or an illustration of Jack’s giant nemesis caught in the illustrated pages of a children’s book. The next page of that book would likely have a lot of red in it.

“What is ‘time out’?” the Champion asked.

The Actor straightened his pirate garb, “I just need a moment to—”

“No time-outs!” Víðarr shouted. “Fight!”

That was all Vali needed. He lumbered toward the Actor, who bobbed his head from side to side, looking for a place to run. Petrified by fear, he stood in place. Didn’t even have his fists up as Vali approached and, when he was within arms’ reach, dropped again to a knee and stuck out his chin.

“Oh, right,” the Actor said and balled one hand into a fist. Then he looked down at his belt and pulled out his costume sword. “Uh, can I use this?”

“If you wish. But know that my skin was forged in a fiery volcano before the dawn of—”

Clang!

My friend hadn’t sliced at the big man—the sword was dull as a spork—but instead smacked the flat side into his opponent’s face.

“Ow, ow, ow,” the Actor said, dropping the sword and folding his hands together. “Christ, my head is ringing!”

“Not mine,” Vali said and stood. He then lifted a massive arm back, standing in a fighter’s stance. As he bore down, with no real options for hiding spots behind him, the Actor burst forward. He ran through the gap between the Champion’s fighter-stance legs and, just for good measure, smashed his fist into the guy’s, um, demigod-baby-making bits as he did.

“Oooof!” Vali said. His hands sprang to his crotch as he fell to his knees.

The Actor was again cradling his own hand, running wildly, and he smashed into the onlookers, who laughed and pushed him back into play.

Back on his feet, Vali pointed at the Actor. “That was a low blow!”

“No it wasn’t,” my friend said, his fist tucked under his armpit. “It was above my head.”

A roar of laughter burst from the crowd, then Vali charged him, yelling as he did. Once again, the Challenger had planted his feet, no idea where to go.

Earlier, I’d seen the ramshackle pile of chairs and tables but noticed a bit of space beneath one. Pointing, I shouted to the Actor.

“Table!”

His head snapped in the direction of my finger, and he tore away from the big man, who, focused on his target, had leapt forward, smashing into the group of roughnecks like a game of ten-pin bowling, taking at least eleven of them down.

When he got back to his feet and spun around, he again frowned, complaining.

The Actor was wedged between a few upturned chairs beneath a table on its side.

“There is no honor in hiding!” Vali shouted.

“Sure,” he said. “But there’s living in hiding!”

The crowd stumbled to their feet again and burst into laughter. Vali advanced once more, and after he crossed the middle of the room, I made a beeline for Víðarr.

“Dude,” I said. “That big bastard’s going to kill my friend!”

The barman nodded solemnly. “He may.”

When I heard the splintering of wood, I snapped my head toward the noise and saw Vali smashing the chairs that had been protecting the Actor. The giant lifted his big meaty paw back, and the small man shouted, his voice quavering.

“No hitting the face!”

His words stopped the big man’s arm mid-swing. For his part, the Actor crouched down and put his hands behind his back, making his body smaller than it already was. He stared up at Vali, his lips trembling.

The Champion moved his head around like a predator waiting outside a hole in the ground, trying to peer inside. But he was looking for a place to hit. For now, the Actor had, in some small way, outsmarted him.

“But it is all face!” Vali shouted, enraged. “Only face to hit in tiny space!”

“Great,” the Actor said, his voice quivering. “Game over. Good fi—”

The big man clasped his hands together and brought them down, smashing the table into toothpicks, and the Actor had to cover his eyes or end up blinded. As the tiny bits of wood tinkled around him, my friend realized he was exposed.

“Don’t—”

It was all he could say as Vali, a bit off balance, pulled back an arm and slugged the Actor on his flank, hurtling the small man the width of the pub. He smashed into the wooden bar and crumpled to the floor.

I turned and pointed at the ancient hourglass.

“Víðarr, how much time is left in the battle?”

He casually looked over and said, “About one and a half lustre.”

“Okay, good,” I said, my mind racing. “Uh, what is that in, you know, minutes.”

“Minutes?” the bartender said, watching Vali regain his footing. The Actor was groaning, wedged between two barstools. “About, I don’t know, three million and—”

“Three million?”

A shrug. “Yes, around seven and a half years,” he said. “Give or take.”

Cheering erupted to my left as I stared, mouth open, at the horrifying scene. Vali was stomping toward him, smashing his fists together and growling like a bear. His muscular legs looked like bridge pylons, rattling the floor as he closed the gap.

The Actor lay in a heap on the ground, moving very slowly. On his side, he could see the big man coming for him. All the Actor could do was lift a hand up as if he was blocking out the sun. The other hand was wrapped around his ribs, where he’d been struck.

“Impressive,” Víðarr said with a light chuckle. “His pirate hat is still on.”

I couldn’t watch and turned away, clenching my fists and squeezing my eyes shut, which made me feel like a coward.

No! No, I can’t let this happen!

When I forced my eyes open, I was looking again at my friend’s seven-plus years of enduring pain. But then, I had an idea.

Behind me, I heard the Actor pleading weakly and Vali roar—yes, roar—as he closed in.

Quickly, I reached forward and grabbed the ancient hourglass. With both hands, I hurled it down on the shelf, smashing the top globe.

The crowd stopped chanting and cheering and snapped their heads toward me as I held up the broken hourglass, bits of glass and ancient sand sprinkling down over me, spilling onto my shoes and the floor.

Lifting the busted, no doubt priceless hourglass above my head, I shouted, “Time’s up!”

That even stopped Vali, who was pointing his sausage finger at me.

“Meinfretr!” he shouted. “You have destroyed the Keeper of Souls!”

Víðarr looked at me, eyes wide.

“You busted my clock,” he said. “Why did you bust my clock?”

I pointed at it, shouting at the barkeep, “Combat is over when all of the sand is gone from the upper globe. That’s what you said!”

“But why’d you bust my clock?” he repeated, his voice a bit weaker.

Stepping forward, I stood in the middle of the pub floor. Once again, I held the smashed hourglass above me. More sandy bits trickled down on me, then one of the ancient wooden braces came loose and bopped me in the middle of the head.

“Ow,” I said but then regained my composure. “Time’s up. Combat’s over.”

Then I casually tossed the broken timepiece to the floor, put my hands on my hips to stop them from shaking, and turned to Víðarr with a confidence I did not feel.

Slowly, he shook his head, and a smile crept upon his face.

“Those… are the rules,” he said. He looked at the beast of a man, who still had one arm cocked in the air above the Actor’s head. “Combat is over.”

“Not over!” Vali shouted. “I hit him across room—one hit. My precept gave him a shot at start—one hit. It is a draw, and we continue until there is winner!”

“Well,” an old, creaky voice said from the crowd. “There was the little Challenger’s punch to the ball sekk.”

“No!” Vali bellowed, rattling the glassware behind the bar.

“Yes,” another voice said, sounding disappointed. “You even made an ‘oof’ sound.” This man turned to the crowd around him. “I do remember the ‘oof’ sound, very unbecoming for a Champion.”

Murmurs of agreement rustled around him.

Víðarr sighed and took a step to the middle of the room, lifting his arms to quiet everyone.

“Combat has finished,” he said, avoiding the gaze of the monster of a man. “The Challenger has, indeed, vanquished the Champion.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin when the crowd behind me actually cheered. But I didn’t stand around to enjoy the strange victory. Instead, I raced over to check on my friend.

“How are ya, man?” I said, reaching down to help him up. “You won.”

“Yay,” he said then winced. “I think there’s a rib in my lung.”

“Nah, you’re fine.”

“I’m not fine, Raz! I got clubbed by a fucking yeti!”

“But you won!” I said and smiled as he put his elbow up on the bar to steady himself. “You should enter more contests. I’ve been around for two of them, and you won both.”

“No, never again,” he said and spat a wad of blood onto the bar.

Víðarr grabbed a towel and wiped it away like it was merely beer foam. He then grabbed a bottle and three short glasses, filling each. He’d done this so fast, inhumanly fast, that I never actually saw him tip the bottle. Sure, he was a demigod likely capable of inflicting wrath and pestilence upon his enemies, but he was also a hell of a bartender.

He’d poured one for himself and downed it with one gulp, nodding for us to do the same.

The Actor swallowed his drink and said, “Another.”

“One last one, Champion.” Víðarr laughed and filled my friend’s glass again. Then he handed the Actor a small corked flask, wrapped in battered old leather. “This is for you—for the win.” He then raised his glass to the reigning champ. “Det vil gjøre deg til det du ikke er.”

“Mazel tov.” My friend stashed the flask in his coat and again emptied his glass.

The bartender nodded behind us to the sacred door. “Come now. You have earned passage, so follow me.”

As he came around the bar, the patrons were returning their tables and chairs to where they were before. Laughing and chattering, everyone was in great spirits. The fight hadn’t been very good, but it was one they’d remember for a very long time.

And my best guess was that a “very long time” to this crowd would be much longer than I could imagine.

The Actor and I looked over at Vali, who was burning holes into both of us with his eyes, arms crossed as he leaned against the front door.

“I think the yeti is sulking,” I said.

“Let’s get going, then,” the Actor said, his words slow and pained. “I don’t wanna hang around for Round Two.”

Víðarr reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring the size of my head. I looked down at his pocket and wondered how it could have possibly fit in there.

Sliding one of the many keys into the door’s lock, he said, “Your success in battle allows you to pass through these doors but only once. If you want to enter again, it will once more require combat.”

Then he threw open the door and stepped aside.

The Actor and I stared. I blinked. He blinked. We looked at each other. Then I turned to the demigod-bartender.

A long, dark hallway stretched before us. On either side was a door. Each one bore symbols, which I could not entirely understand. But I’d been in enough theme restaurants to work out what they both meant.

I said, “This is the bathroom.”

Víðarr shrugged. “It is our way.”

“You guys have a battle to the death just to get to the john?” the Actor said, his eyes ping-ponging from door to door.

“Not every time,” our host said. “Most people just go behind the building. Much safer.”

“Wait, wait,” I said, taking a step back. “This is not what we need. I am looking for some communication hardware! Not toilets! We went through all of that—”

“You went through?” my friend said, his voice strained. “I’m the one who was tossed around the bar like a beach ball at a Smash Mouth concert!”

Víðarr held up his hand and pointed into the darkness.

“What you seek is at the end of the hallway,” he said. “Take care of your business, and, I would suggest, you go out the rear entrance. Vali will not be pleased to see you again.”

I nodded, and we both started forward. Then I spun back. “Hold on. There’s another entrance? There was another way into the room we needed?”

A shrug. “Yes.”

“Then why couldn’t we have just gone in that way instead of all…” I waved my hands around then pointed at the Actor, who was rubbing his side. “You know, that?”

Another shrug. “This was far more entertaining.”

* * *

We both held our breath as we pushed the heavy door at the end of the hallway. Me, because I was bracing for some three-headed dragon with laser claws to come leaping out at us. The Actor, I guessed, because it kind of hurt to breathe.

The door creaked open.

“This place,” the Actor wheezed, still holding his ribs, “is nasty. What a dump. I nearly died for this?”

The floor was covered in dirty straw. A pile of what looked like either the pelts or the bed linens of someone who despised comfort lay there. Along one wall stood a stack of small wooden kegs, each with a fat cork keeping whatever was inside inside. The barrels looked older than some of the rocks we’d seen when we’d walked up the path to the pub.

Looking up revealed the gray sky through a rusted iron mesh. In the middle of the room, sure enough, was a satellite dish.

Not the cheery, compact ones that dotted the exterior of city apartment buildings. This thing was massive and took up nearly a third of the space. If you filled it with water, a neighborhood of kids could happily play in it all afternoon, as long as they didn’t lose a finger to any of the struts that formed the antennae.

“Well, no wonder that damn thing doesn’t work,” the Actor said and plopped down on a three-legged stool. “Look at all the stuff in it. Dirt, leaves, and… are those bones?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said and walked over to a small, cluttered stone desk on the far side of the room. “According to the Old Man, I just jam the right USB stick into it, and the dish realigns,” I said, tracing a thin wire from the base of the dish to the desk, which was piled high with old clothes.

“Then what?”

I shrugged, admiring a brown leather cloak in the stack of discarded garments. Cool coat. Wonder if Víðarr would mind if I borrowed this? And by borrow, I mean take and not give back ever.

Moving the rest of the clothes aside, I found a computer, circa 1986. Damn thing had a five-and-a-quarter-inch floppy drive. Someone had “upgraded” the hardware—I saw a USB port had been installed, its wires snaking somewhere behind the machine.

“Got it,” I said, absentmindedly.

“How many more of these do we have to find?”

“Three,” I said and found the right thumb drive, jamming it into its slot. Nothing happened.

I heard some grumbling from the bar again, and the Actor skitted his feet away from the door. He stared at the knob for a moment.

“Come on, hurry up.”

“I’m working on it,” I said and dug out the keyboard. I tried a few keystrokes, and the ancient screen brought up a single blinking cursor. I tried a few quick key combinations, but nothing happened. So I punched it.

The screen came to life.

“I do miss the old machines sometimes,” I said as thousands of strange characters rolled over a black background, so fast I couldn’t make any sense of it. Waiting for the computer to do something, anything, I pointed at the green-screen digits whizzing past from top to bottom. “Oh, look—the woman in the red dress.”

“What?” the Actor said, turning his head toward me. “Ah. I get it. Dated pop reference.”

“Ah, cheer up,” I said, pressing the thumb drive into its slot. “We’re nearly—”

From the computer came an ungodly screeching, like someone rubbing two skyscrapers together, and I slapped my hands to my ears.

He shouted, “You broke it!”

“I didn’t break it,” I said. I hope I didn’t break it.

The dish began to rumble and turn, both rotating and arching as it found its target. And then, as quickly as the cacophony of metal scraping stone began, it was over. After a clank, the screen read, Interlinked with BadSat 11.41. Declination 14.1 degrees…

“I think…” I said, squinting at the monochromatic screen, “I think that’s it. One down, three to go.”

“Ugh, don’t say it out loud,” the Actor said and slowly climbed off the stool.

Then I remembered the last thing the Old Man had said to me. According to our private confab in the Weird Space outside of Sally’s ex-ranch house, I was supposed to also get a name.

The bottom of the screen read, Hit F13 for incoming message from Watcher.

I scanned the keyboard and frowned then lifted it as if some hidden key lay underneath.

“Goddamn it,” I muttered. “Keyboards don’t have an F13. It’s F1 through F12. What the hell does..?”

“Ya gotta hit Shift to get to it,” the Actor said, just off my shoulder, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. He could be sneakily quiet when he wanted to be.

“Whatta ya mean?”

He looked at the message. “Who the hell is ‘Watcher’?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t wanna know.”

“Fine,” he said, reached up, and hit the shift key and F1 at the same time. “You get to F13 to 24 by hitting Shift.”

“How do you even know that?”

“Did a lot of data entry before I became America’s Sweetheart.”

The computer blurted out a sad tone from its fried speaker. Now a name appeared next to the cursor.

“Who the hell is ‘William Hare’?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t wanna know,” I said and searched around for some paper and a pen. In a demigod’s old shed. Who am I kidding? For now, I’d just have to commit this one to memory.

I’d spotted the door when we’d come in easy enough—it was right next to the stack of kegs—but when I started toward it, I felt my friend’s hand on my arm.

“Hold on,” he said. “You said we were just like the Devil’s Geek Squad or something. Jam a stick in, dish is back on track, and we move on.” He pointed at the screen. “What’s this other stuff?”

Shaking my head, I looked at the exit again. “I don’t know, man. But, yeah, it’s a bit of a side hustle or something that the Old Man asked me to do. No biggie.”

“Nothing with the Devil is no biggie.”

“Well…”

The air around the small computer crackled with pinpricks of light. Looking around, I thought I could see—

“Fireflies,” the Actor said dreamily. Then, I felt an unholy pressure squeezing my insides, trying to make them outsides.

“Get away from it,” I wheezed and reached out a hand, dragging my friend with me. A few steps away, we both fell to the floor. When I glanced back, the computer looked exactly the same. Except now, a thin box of light surrounded it, like the machine was in some translucent container, the same green tint as the words on the screen.

My friend sat up, reaching out for it. But I slapped his hand, and he snapped it back.

“Ow, fucker.”

I grabbed some dirty straw from the floor and tossed it at the green glow. The straw burst into flames.

“Okay, so no touching those things,” I said. The Actor was already on his feet and helping me to mine. As I stood, he flicked my ear.

“Ow, fucker!”

“Now we’re even,” he said. “And what is this shit? What’s with this William Hare guy?”

“Just a… the Old Man said I needed to collect some names.”

“Hold on. You’re getting some kinda intel for the guy?” The Actor slowly shook his pirate head. “Aw, Christ, man! You know what that makes you?”

This time, I shrugged. “A guy getting intel.”

“No, it means with all the other shit you’ve gotten us into, you’re now also a spy.”

I walked over, put my hand on the doorknob, turned it, and pushed it open to reveal open fields. “So? Fine, I’m a spy.”

The Actor walked past me, taking one last glance at the screen.

“For a smart guy, you can be so dumb,” he said. “Fixing some dude’s computer, you’re just, you know, the plucky tech for the guy who hired you. But spy work is a whole new ballgame, man!”

Stepping outside, I let the dim sun warm my face.

“Fine, fine,” I said. “Whatever. We do this, and Sally doesn’t explode. Collecting a few names along the way is nothing.”

“Spies, Rasputin, work between two parties. The ones who want the intel and the ones trying to keep their secrets.”

He was right. What had the Devil gotten me into this time?

“Which means, if I have to spell it out for you,” he said, closing the door behind him, “is that sooner or later, you’re going to have a target on your back. People don’t like their secrets being un-secreted.”

When he glanced at what I had draped over my arm, he frowned.

“Did you take a coat?”

“I think it’s a cloak.”

“You stole from a demigod?”

“It was in the storeroom, man,” I said, pulling off my jacket and tossing it behind the pub. “He ain’t gonna miss it. You got a flask of demigod whiskey, I got a coat.”

“Thought you said it was a cloak.”

I pushed my hands through the sleeves and settled my shoulders into it. “Nice. It fits. How do I look? I bet I look cool. You can tell me I look cool. It’s no big deal.”

“You look like a guy who hangs around playgrounds and whistles at the single mothers.”

“Yeah,” I said and started walking back toward the bike. “But a cool guy who hangs around playgrounds and whistles at the single mothers. Can’t wait to show it to Uncle Jerry,” I added. “He knows cool.”

“If Anza were here, she’d tell you to put your coat back on,” he said. “And you know what? You’d do it.”

The thought of our friend brought a smile to my face, but then that happiness faded a bit. She’d been on a couple of my surely-you’re-gonna-die adventures, and it felt slightly empty without her around.

“I kinda miss her too,” the Actor said.

“She’s working some stuff out with Dan,” I said and sighed. “Be great to have her here.”

“Never happen,” he said. “Part-time angels don’t do Devil quests.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Dan said, “Do you like s’mores?”

“What is s’mores?” Anza said, staring down at her segmented plastic plate. In one part lay a clump of cold beans. In the second sat some potato chips soggy from the rain that had lashed the campsite the night before. The third and largest compartment of the plate held a burnt piece of chicken so scrawny, she’d assumed the chicken had gone to the chopping block willingly, ready to end it all.

“It’s when you roast a marshmallow then smash a thick piece of chocolate on it and jam it between two graham crackers.”

She looked down at her plate.

“Why are we eating this when we have snores?”

“S’mores.”

Anza grinned from ear to ear, rounded her arm toward the trees, and flung the sorry excuse for lunch into the bush. “Bring on the good stuff!”

Dan sighed and stood up from the campfire, which he’d fought to keep lit all afternoon.

Anza had suggested that they needed to just get away, maybe go on a trip. Somewhere nice. Dan had agreed but worried a resort or spa would be filled only with distractions. Or owned by one of the two factions of Hell.

He had a better idea: camping.

“Aw, baby, don’t throw food in the bush,” he said, his arms hanging at his sides. “It’ll attract bears.”

“Bears?” she said, shrinking deep into her folding chair. “Why is this also the first time you are telling me about bears?”

“I felt the s’mores revelation would balance nicely with the bear one,” he said with a crooked smile. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Now I am worried! And…” she said, struggling to stand, “trapped in the K-Mart chair!”

“Honey, it’ll be fine. We got s’mores coming, remember?”

She grunted and spoke quickly in her mother tongue for a moment then finally extracted herself from the offending seating device.

“I am going in the tent,” she said, stepping between thick branches and brambles. “You can bring the spores in there.”

“S’mores. We shouldn’t eat in the tent, though, sweetheart.”

“Why not?”

Don’t say bears. Don’t say bears. Don’t say bears, Dan instructed himself.

“Because… it’s, you know, camping,” he said. “Outdoors, beside the campfire.”

“Is no campfire. Is camp flame,” she said and looked back at it. “Just the one.”

Dan glared at the feeble tendril of light, which flickered in a way that made it appear to doubt its own existence. He smiled when he saw the flame lick a neighboring branch, the latter coming alight.

“Ha! Two flames. Now it is a fire.”

They both blew out.

“Ah, man.”

Anza couldn’t help herself. She started to giggle but stopped. She’d realized why the sad little fire had snuffed out.

“What is…?”

Howling winds snaked through the trees, and the leaves began to shake.

“Storm,” Dan said, snatching up the soft gear around them: blankets, napkins, graham crackers. “We should get into the tent.”

Anza spotted a gray rabbit that stared at her with a queer expression. Rising to its haunches, it sniffed the air then shot off into the forest. The wind grew stronger, blowing the napkins out of her husband’s hands, and she watched them scatter away like fat snowflakes. When she turned back to Dan, she was frowning.

“It’s okay,” he shouted over the growing din. “They’re biodegradable.”

Anza shook her head and pointed just beyond the smoldering campfire.

Two orbs of light cut through the trees toward them—one white, the other swirling purples and blacks. They inched closer to each other, and Dan saw Anza had balled her hands into fists.

He dropped the blankets.

The graham crackers, however, he put into his jacket. Anza flicked her eyes toward him.

Tapping the pocket, he said, “For later.”

The balls of light materialized into arms, legs, heads, and bodies.

On Anza’s side, a member of the Angelic council stood before her, shining brightly in flowing robes. Across from Dan stood a representative from the other side.

“Sideshow Dan, is it?” the tall, gangly man said. As he came into form, bits of molten flesh burned and dropped to the ground below, igniting a small patch of dried leaves.

Dan looked down and sighed. “Where were you when I was trying to start the campfire?”

The demon’s counterpart frowned and extinguished the flame with a cool blast from her fingertip.

“Dear Anza,” she said. “You look well.”

“And who are you supposed to being?”

“My name is Adriel,” the beautiful creature said, holding her arms open wide. Anza did not advance toward her.

The half demon laughed, spitting out soot as he did. “You’re not Adriel! I fought against Adriel in the Battle of the Tides. Bitch threw a moon at me!”

Adriel smiled, cutting her eyes to the forest floor then flicking them toward the half demon. “It’s an honorarium. You would not understand, since you are without honor.”

“And you’re without Adriel’s delicious curves,” he said, a dollop of molten flame dripping from his mouth. “Oh, she can throw a moon at me anytime. Heh, heh.”

Dan said, “Who are you supposed to be then?”

The man of flame took a step toward him.

“I am Lorax! And all shall—”

“Was,” Adriel said in a sing-song voice, her smile growing. “Was Lorax. You were, yes, demoted, from what I remember? Is that right?”

Dan took a step away. “What does a demon have to do to get demoted?”

“Archangel!” the creature once known as Lorax bellowed.

“Former archangel,” Adriel said. “If you were still an archangel, a conversation with these mortals would be forbidden, of course.” She turned to the two people standing before them. “He’s just a regular ol’ demon now.”

“I am not regular!”

Adriel smiled wickedly. “Maybe you should be eating more fiber.”

“All right, the two of you!” Anza shouted, waving her hands in the air. “Why don’t you both just do it and get it over with!”

The demon and half angel looked at each other, both wide-eyed. Then they turned to Anza, their mouths hanging open.

“You have come here to do something,” Anza said through gritted teeth. “So do that thing and leave so we can go back to camping badly.”

“Heeeey,” Dan said, but his wife just waved her hand at him.

“Anza, you know this situation is… untenable,” the woman of light said. She raised an open palm toward her counterpart. “For as displeasing as the notion is, even Larry agrees with me.”

“Larry?” Dan said. “Your name is Larry?”

Larry frowned. “Short for Lorax. Originally, I was going to go by Lorry, but all the fucking Brits laughed at me. Said I sounded like a truck.”

“Laurie is girl’s name anyhow,” Anza said, shrugging.

“Lorry, not Laurie!”

Anza shrugged again. “Is same thing.”

“Enough!” Adriel clapped her hands, sending forth a white light that burst forth and radiated outward in a shock wave. The two mortals shivered, momentarily paralyzed. Larry spit out something green.

“Both sides agree that a half demon and half angel cannot be partners,” she said. “Beyond upsetting the balance, a time may come when one is privy to information that cannot be shared with the other. Are you willing to keep secrets from each other?”

“No more than any couple do,” Anza said.

Dan turned to her and whispered, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She said, “You don’t think I know about you are going into incognito mode on your phone to watch—”

“Okay, okay,” he said, still whispering, raising his hands. “But nothing serious, right?”

“No, mira. Never,” his wife said. “But I do probably spend a bit more on the Farmville game than I may have mentioned.”

“I’ll live with it,” her husband said and smiled. Then he asked, “How much more?”

The demon said, “But we can’t live with the two of you living under the same roof!”

“Again, regretfully, I have to agree with Larry,” Adriel said. “So if the two of you could just—”

“Split,” Larry said. “We need you to divorce or live in separate homes and never talk to each other ever again, m’kay? Either way works.”

“That is not happening,” Anza said, turning to the woman of light. “How can you, being the goodest here, even suggest that two people who love each other should not be together?”

“Do you love each other though?” she said, smiling sadly. “The arguments, the slammed doors. That counselor is doing you no favors, and, you know, she’s supposed to be one of the best.”

Anza squinted at the other half angel. “How do you know that?”

Adriel stared off, just beyond the human’s shoulder. She started to speak but then stopped.

Dan pointed at Adriel and said to his wife, “Not supposed to lie, right?”

Anza nodded, fuming.

“Funny how she can’t seem to answer you,” he said.

Larry burst into a fit of laughter. “Who cares? I like it better when she doesn’t talk,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. The two of you can’t be together, end of story. There is no other way.”

“I could just quit my job,” Dan said.

“It—” Larry said then furrowed his brow. “Okay, yes. That is the other way.”

The couple stood there speechless, watching the two representatives of the worlds below and above. Then Anza put her hand into her husband’s, leaving the two of them behind.

“Pack up the tent, because I am tired of the Heaven and Hell talking,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

In the cockpit, Uncle Jerry was making last checks, scribbling notes on a clipboard, and erasing notations then rewriting them. I had no idea if all that was necessary. I wasn’t a pilot. Surely when you stole someone else’s jet, keeping perfect logs wasn’t a priority.

But watching him, I could tell the old guy was in his happy place. Working the plane, all the little prep, fiddling with the dials, taking readings and rereadings. Uncle Jerry was the most casual, chilled-out person I’d ever met, but if you cut him open, I bet you’d find a propeller in there.

Gunked up with pot resin, sure, but it’d be there.

I heard yet another splash against the side of the plane.

“Are you done with that? We gotta go,” I shouted.

The Actor stomped up the fold-out stairs and dropped the empty pitcher into one of the cabin’s loungers.

Inspecting the edges of the once-busted window, he muttered low. “Old man did an amazing job of it. I think it’s actually airtight.”

“Of course it is,” our pilot called out. “We don’t wanna blow a seal at forty thousand feet.”

“Don’t!” I said, pointing at the Actor before he could say whatever stupid retort his nasty little mind had cooked up. “Don’t! Too easy.”

The man’s mouth was hanging open, and he had to swallow the crude joke, whatever it was, back down.

He frowned at me. “Killjoy.”

“Close it up,” Uncle Jerry called out. “Wave goodbye to Scotland. Time to clear out.”

The Actor leaned out of the plane and pulled up the stairs, securing the door with a satisfying thwoop sound. He once again eyeballed the hard black plastic covering the hole, which looked like it had been cut by a machine. Nearly perfect. Some sort of glue or epoxy lined the edges, keeping everything in place.

After one last check of the tie-down straps keeping Bucephalus secure just off the galley—which earned me a trilling purr from the bike—I found the lounger farthest away from the once-busted window. Sure, Uncle Jerry had done some nice handiwork, but if it didn’t hold, I didn’t want to be anywhere near it.

The Actor was still eyeballing the window.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said as the plane began to jostle down the dirt track.

“I’m not worried, man,” he said and plopped into his own seat. “Just, you know, suddenly, he’s Mr. Fixit. First taking care of Induna’s henchman, henchwoman, whatever, and then he’s the window repair guy.”

I nodded and smiled but wasn’t feeling it. I thought about the henchman, henchwoman, whatever. When we’d returned, our friend had looked a bit down about the whole thing, avoiding both our eyes. But when we asked about her, he’d simply said he’d “taken care of it.”

No, he’d insisted when we’d pressed him, of course he hadn’t killed her. Just secured her so she wouldn’t be a problem for us.

The jet swung round in a tight turn so that we were facing the length of the landing strip. A moment later, the pitch of the engines bent upward, and the entire cabin shook as we moved faster and faster.

Out my window, I saw the dilapidated workhouse of the tiny airstrip, the only structure for miles. And sure, she’d been pointing a rifle at us for hours, but I hoped she would be okay in there.

“Where to next?”

“Huh?” Our pilot had interrupted my train of thought. “Oh, right.” I shuffled through the remaining three USB sticks. While several locales might be closer, the thought that this Induna lunatic was returning to this part of the world made the other side seem far more appealing.

“Head to Australia.”

Uncle Jerry leaned into a control in his right hand, and the engines grew even louder. “Big place,” he said and laughed. “Like the size of a continent.”

The Actor looked at me as he pulled the sides of his pirate hat lower. “It is a continent,” he said, scratching his fake beard. “Guess the genius comes and goes.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“Get comfortable,” Uncle Jerry said, stripping off his headset and stepping down into the cabin of Induna’s jet. “We’re at top speed, but it’ll still take us hours to get to the coordinates on the back of your doohickey there.”

Our pilot eased himself into a reclining chair next to me. He was moving more slowly than I remembered, but my two friends had had a very, very long flight in almost exactly the opposite direction with no rest in between.

“We should get some sleep if we can,” I said. “Once we get to…”

“Victoria,” Uncle Jerry said. “It’s an Aussie state like Wyoming or Idaho. But with poisonous spiders the size of babies, snakes that can kill you with a smile, and even more dangerous predators than those.”

The Actor looked up from his wine glass, droplets of red liquid dangling off his lip. “Like what?”

“Australians.”

My old friend pulled out an eye mask and strapped it on. I was still too wired to fall asleep.

“Wonder if there’s a movie on this flight?”

“Speaking of which,” the Actor said in a sing-song voice from across the cabin. Grinning, he spun the tablet around to show me.

“Can’t see it, man,” I said and put my head back on the lounger’s built-in pillow. “Why don’t you read it to me?”

“It says that ‘Hollywood is buzzing over the most unusual buddy cop movie pair-up since Turner & Hooch.’”

“High praise,” I said.

He shot me a middle finger as he scanned the article.

“In all twelve new test markets, they are selling out theaters, morning ’til night.” The Actor swiped his finger across the screen a few more times. “This one says that I have ‘single-handedly expanded the universe of character acting into another dimension.’” He held the tablet out, extending his arms, as if to see the praise from more angles. Then he pulled the tablet back and hugged it like a lost child who had just been found.

“You know, Uncle Jerry, I think I prefer it when he’s a grump.”

“Ah, no.” Uncle Jerry shook his head, his black-out mask turning toward me. “It’s been a tough year, Razzie. Let our man enjoy a little bit of sunshine.”

“Yeah, but maybe he should do it back in Induna’s bedroom, alone,” I said to my grinning companion. “With the lights dim.”

“No, no,” our pilot said with a yawn. “Not unless you’ve been fully vaccinated. Who knows what happened in there?”

The Actor was in a world of his own, swiping and smiling. Softly, he said, “It’s been a long time. People still like me.”

Before I could volley another jibe at him, I felt Uncle Jerry’s hand on my wrist. He whispered to me. “Let our man have his moment. Means a lot.”

He was right, of course.

The Actor had picked a career that meant the world would love you one day and hate you the next, and he enjoyed both in equal measures. That wasn’t unique to the domain of performers. The human race cheered success but quietly loathed the successful. Often, not so quietly. Maybe you deserved it. Maybe you didn’t.

But I supposed you could only hope that the love outweighed the hate.

I was lucky. I’d had the love of an amazing woman, so even if all the other eight billion people on the planet ended up hating me, I was still in the black.

You have the love of an amazing woman.

Yes, sweetheart. Have.

You’re not getting rid of me because of something as trivial as death.

I never want to be rid of you. You’re my forever girl.

And you’re my forever Razzie.

“What’s with the sloppy grin, boy?” Uncle Jerry said, peeking under his eye mask. “Haven’t seen that in a long time.”

“Ah, just, you know. Thinking ’bout Cassie,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Always cheers me up but in a sad way. If that makes any sense.”

“Of course it does. You never forget your true love, Raz.”

I turned toward him. “You ever have that?”

He drew in a breath and smiled as he exhaled. “Everyone should have that.”

“I’ve never seen you with a girl,” I said. “All my life, you’ve been Uncle Jerry, confirmed bachelor.”

“That was never the plan.” He shrugged and closed his eyes. “Ah, well, once you find the perfect one—if you find the perfect one—why bother looking anymore? Even when they’re gone.”

Those words squeezed my heart a little. A bittersweet sadness played across my friend’s face.

I said, “What happen—?”

“Hey, remember that name we saw back at the pub?” the Actor interrupted.

Uncle Jerry’s eyes popped open again. “What name?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said then quickly turned to the loudmouth with the tablet. “Let’s not get into this, I don’t think—”

“William Hare,” the Actor said, sipping his wine.

“And yet he says it anyhow,” I said and threw my hands up. “Jesus, man.”

“What?” the Actor said. “Looks like he runs a global construction company.”

“Great.”

“There’s not much else.” The Actor swiped. “His outfit deals with large-scale construction. Like skyscrapers and stadiums, maybe.”

Sighing, I rubbed my forehead with the heel of my palm. “Okay, doesn’t tell us much. Let’s just drop it for now.”

“Fine,” the Actor said. He stayed quiet for about five seconds then added, “Why do you think the Devil’s interested in a construction king?”

“What?” Uncle Jerry said. “What does that mean?”

I scowled at the Actor. “Seriously? Can’t you just shut the hell up sometimes?”

The small man looked at me with a mix of anger and pain, but he just didn’t know when to quit. So much for not letting anyone else know about the little side plan.

“You wanna tell me about this or no?” my old friend said in a low voice.

“Better if you’re clear of it, I think.”

He nodded and smiled. “Gotcha. I get the feeling you’re trying to protect me, which I’m all good with. I ain’t so good at protecting myself, so nice to know I got people who got my back.”

Then, he closed his eyes, refit the eye mask, and was out in seconds.

I tried to drift off, too, but the Actor’s question had taken hold of my mind.

What did the King of the Underworld want with some guy who made buildings?

* * *

“You couldn’t have parked any closer?” the Actor griped as we walked down the barren dirt track.

“Can’t land just anywhere. It’s a jet, it ain’t a whirlybird.”

According to my phone’s GPS, the next coordinates were a one-hour hike through the Australian outback. Well, at least I thought it was the outback, assuming that the word was a catch-all for any place away from towns and cities.

The satellite view on the tiny screen showed rock, dirt, and more rock at the spot we were heading. In the center stood some sort of stony outcropping, like someone with fake redneck teeth had taken a bite out of the hard-packed dirt.

“Jesus, this sun is hot,” I said, panting.

“More cases of melanoma in this part of the world than anywhere else,” Uncle Jerry said, tugging on his ball cap. “You shoulda worn a hat, Razzie.”

“I was in a rush.”

“I got a hat,” the Actor said, pleased with himself.

I looked over at Pirate Boy. “I’d rather get skin cancer.”

The next twenty-five minutes were grueling, and I’d swigged down three tiny airline water bottles by the time we reached the edge of the bush. Finally, in the shade, it cooled down but not much.

The Actor, dressed in nouveau pirate black, was drenched.

“Even with all the trees blocking the sun,” he said, breathing heavy, “it’s still an oven! I’m roasting over here. Or stewing, I suppose, given the amount of sweat under my balls right now.”

“Gross.”

Uncle Jerry reached out for a skinny tree and leaned like both might bend in half.

“Maybe we should take a quick break,” he said.

I shook my head. “Can’t. We’re running out of time.”

My old friend nodded and forced a smile, but I could see he was just putting it on for me. I mean, the guy was in his sixties. A bush walk in one hundred ten–degree heat wasn’t good for him.

“You guys don’t need to go all the way,” I said. “Why don’t you set up camp here—”

“There you are!”

On alert, we all scanned our surroundings, trying to find the source of the voice in the thicket of trees. There wasn’t much green, but all those skinny trunks together were like a wall.

The Actor was trying to hide behind one that was about as wide as my arm.

“It’s like a magic trick,” I said. “You’re totally hidden. Except for all of you.”

Uncle Jerry whispered, “Where’d that voice come from?”

I shook my head then looked back the way we’d come. “You know, a few times, I thought I saw someone behind us, but it was hard to tell. The heat off the road makes everything so blurry.”

“Hey, look,” our pilot said, and I spun around.

A woman on horseback waved as her horse clomped toward us. The woman was probably in her sixties, too, but smart enough to dress for the heat. Wide-brimmed hat, loose-fitting long-sleeved shirt, cargo pants, and what looked like high-dollar hiking boots.

The three of us just stared as she hopped down off her horse and walked our way.

“You must be my three o’clock, then?” she said, in a thick Aussie twang. “I was wondering if maybe you’d been scared off by a goanna or gotten a poke from a python. Ya get lost, did ya?”

For a moment, we all stood there, speechless.

“Oh, right,” she said then pulled a small, leather-bound notebook from one of her many pockets. “Bonjour, êtes-vous prêt à faire de l'équitation?”

I looked at Uncle Jerry.

Uncle Jerry looked at the Actor.

The Actor looked at me.

Uncle Jerry cleared his throat, waved at her, and said, “¿Dónde está el baño?”

I looked at the Actor.

The Actor looked at Uncle Jerry.

The woman looked at all three of us.

“Uncle Jerry, what the hell was that?” the Actor said.

The old pilot shrugged. “Only Spanish I know, really,” he said to blank stares from all of us. Including the stranger. “Just tryin’ to help.”

The woman tucked the notebook away, shook her head, and walked toward him.

“And ya did yourself proud, you did,” she said. “Now, it’s hotter than the Devil’s armpit out here, so come on. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” I said.

She gave me a funny look. “To my ranch, obviously.”

“Obviously,” the Actor said.

* * *

Marilyn Ventura, the sole proprietor of a trail-riding business deep in the Aussie bush, was sharing a saddle with Uncle Jerry. The Actor and I walked behind with a full view of horse ass. And while the two of us jumped at every twitching branch, the old folks carried on like they were on a first date.

“What do you do, Uncle Jerry? You retired or still slavin’ away like yours truly?” she said, craning her neck back to look at him. “I mean, I coulda retired, but it can make the brain go a bit soft. They say that killed Johnny Carson in the end. Brain goes, then the body.”

“Oh, you’ve n-n-nothing to worry about,” Uncle Jerry stammered. “You got a great body.”

Keeping his stride, the Actor wrapped an arm over his eyes. “Make him stop.”

Could have been a sunburn, but it looked like the back of my friend’s neck had turned red.

“I mean, it… apologies,” he said. “I didn’t… wasn’t trying to insult you or nothin’.”

“For saying some lady looks good?” she said, beaming at him. “How could that be insulting?”

They kept chatting away, so I slowed down to give them a bit of privacy. A moment later, the Actor poked me in the back.

“Keep walking, man,” he said. “We gotta outpace any snakes.”

"Why don't you go first?” I said and turned to face him. “I'll walk behind you."

"No, that won't work."

"Why not?"

He sighed. "Because if I got bit and died out here, the newspapers would all read how the groundbreaking star of the new hit film Frank & Earnest died in the Aussie bush from a venomous snake bite."

"It's day one of wide release," I said. "Ain't a hit yet."

"Accept it, I'm back on top," he said. "Now if you get bit out here, what do you think the newspapers will say?"

"Fine, they wouldn't say anything. Can't we just—"

"Au contraire! The papers would read, 'groundbreaking star of the new hit film Frank & Earnest escapes death after an unknown member of his party died in the Aussie bush from a venomous snake bite.’"

We both tensed at the sound of a stick cracking, but when we looked, we saw nothing. Slowly, I started walking again.

"You got a jaded life view, brother."

"No, Rasputin. It's reality," he said, walking in my footsteps. "Do you know what I do when I get onto an international flight?"

"Check to make sure it's fully stocked?"

"Don't be silly. Of course it will be fully stocked. I fly first class," he said. "As the seats fill up, I keep an eye out for other actors, pop singers, U.S. senators..."

"Looking for ‘your people.’"

"Oh, no, if I see someone more famous than me, I grab my stuff, get off the plane, and find another flight."

That stopped me in my tracks. I looked over my shoulder.

"What the hell for?"

"Because, if we did go down, the headline is ‘Lady Gaga Dies Tragically in a Plane Crash.’ Then I get pushed down somewhere around paragraph eight as ‘B-list TV performer,’" he said, and I heard him shiver.

Sure, he could be a bit of a dick.

But once again, this “dick” was risking his life to help me out. For all his bluster and bitching along the way, he didn't have to come. It seemed, for the very few people he did care about, our little circle, the royal pain in the ass would put everything on the line.

So, deep down, he was actually a good dude.

Maybe very deep, but it was there.

"We’re here," Marilyn called out as we came up to her cozy-looking lodge.

The residence actually reminded me a little of Sally’s old ranch house, minus the high-caliber mounted machine guns. Rustic, warm, and serene.

“I’d love to retire in a place like this,” I said.

The Actor shot me a look as he walked toward it. “Retire from what? You don’t got a job, man.”

“No electricity, no gas lines, no telephone,” I said, drinking in a deep breath and releasing it. “How it was in a simpler time. Like in the 1820s or something.”

Marilyn said, “Got a solar panel array out back, so you got warm water to clean up. And if you’re keen for a quick snack, grab one of the Hot Pockets out of the freezer and heat it up in the microwave.” She hopped down from her horse. “Use the popcorn button on the micro. That’ll do the trick.”

The Actor walked up the short steps and spread his arms wide.

“Hot Pockets!” he said dickishly. “Just like it was in the 1820s.”

* * *

“Lemme get Smokey here some water, and I’ll grab you and your friends your rides,” Marilyn said as she led the horse toward a shaded paddock.

Uncle Jerry patted the animal’s flank and said, “What a gorgeous creature.”

Marilyn curtsied. “Why thank you, kind sir.”

He blushed.

“Uh, is it a Hanoverian? About fifteen hands?”

She pushed up her cowboy hat with a stubby index finger, smiling at him. “Well, look at you. You’re a horseman?”

“Me? No,” he said. “I was enslaved by a Mexican drug lord to run dope in a low-flying plane across borders to avoid the Federales for a while.”

“All right, then.”

“He had a stable of horses,” Uncle Jerry said, stroking the horse’s neck. “Me and the little boy there used to feed ’em, muck out the stalls.”

Marilyn took a step back and looked the man up and down.

“Good lord, it sounds like you’ve had an interesting life.”

“Getting more interesting by the minute,” he said. Then he saw her smile at his words. “I mean… well, what I mean is that, well, we didn’t really come for a trail ride.”

“Oh?”

“No, no! Nothing horrible,” he said. “Well, nothing horrible involving you. Um, that totally came out wrong.”

Marilyn held her hands up. “Don’t worry about it. You got something to do, and my clients didn’t show up. So, if you’re willing to part with a few bucks for a guide, I can take you out.”

Uncle Jerry nodded. “Of course, of course. We’ve got money,” he said. “Well, the Actor has money, and we like to spend it whenever we can.”

“Recognized him from somewhere.”

“Great,” he said. In a lower voice, he told her, “Don’t bring up the train movie. He gets a bit persnickety.”

“Don’t really know that one, but noted,” she said. “But you are going to have to tell me where you boys are headed.”

Uncle Jerry pulled a folded map out of his pocket and laid it flat on a steel picnic table. He pointed at a spot ringed with irregular topographical lines.

“Some old gold prospectors’ camp, it says.”

Marilyn sighed. “UJ—can I call you UJ? Feels odd to call you Uncle Jerry, since you and me are about the same age.”

“I like it.”

“Well, UJ, you’ve wasted a trip. There ain’t any gold up in them there hills,” she said. “That’s why it’s an abandoned camp. Early last century, the prospectors up there tried for the better part of a year. Died in a raid.”

“Oh, that’s horrible.”

She shrugged. “Welcome to the Outback.”

“But we’re not here for gold. It’s what you might call a personal quest of Razzie’s,” he said, stumbling over his words. “Uh, like a, you know, um, wellness thing. He just wants to go up and, you know, meditate for a half hour.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“That’s his thing.”

“If traveling halfway across the globe to chant on a hill nobody can’t get to is your thing, sure.”

Uncle Jerry’s smile fell.

“Can’t get to?”

Marilyn headed toward the paddock again, calling back over her shoulder. “Dangerous place up there, so somebody years ago, long time now, cut down the rope bridge. The miners’ camp is up on a big peak, and nobody’s climbing that without a nasty fall.”

“Oh.”

After grabbing another horse, she led it over to a horizontal wooden rail, where she tied it up. Then she rubbed the animal’s withers for a moment, brushing off some dust.

“Listen, even if you could get up there, you wouldn’t want to.”

“Well, Raz, you know—”

“No, really,” she said and stepped toward him, a little closer than before. “Place is haunted.”

“What? Come on, you don’t believe in all that stuff, do ya?”

“Now, I don’t go in for all that hokum stuff about spirits and everything, but I used to do a trail ride past that place some years back,” she said. “Tourists loved it. You know, an old-timey sort of building. Great story about old gold prospectors struggling and struggling only to get murdered in their sleep one night.”

“Jesus.”

“Right. As I said, I used to take folks up that way,” she said, her face stone serious. “Not no more. A few groups got spooked. One of them said they heard voices. Hell, at first, I thought that would be even better for business. ‘Come see the spooky haunted camp,’ right?”

“Right.”

She shook her head. “Had a group of Italians. I had to go back up the way because one of them left behind their fancy pansexual sunglasses when the clouds came in. One the way back, I passed by the old mine, and this time, I heard the voices.”

“For real?”

Marilyn nodded. “At first, it was like a gurgling sound, and I laughed it off. But then I could hear muttering… just this, I don’t know how else to explain it… this evil sort of chattering, fast-talking voice. Couldn’t make out any words, but I heard it.”

“Musta scared the hell out of you.”

“If you let your imagination run wild—and out here, that’s the only thing that does, other than the horses—I thought the gurgling might be the same sort of sound a fella makes when they get a knife across the throat in their sleep.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Yep, that is a big ol’ hill,” Uncle Jerry said, scratching his two-day-old gray beard. “Only way up is that tangle of rope, then?”

Marilyn nodded and took a swig from her canteen.

I was feeling deflated but tried to keep that from my friends. At the start, this new job felt like some light tourism, despite the Hell-sent travel agent who booked it and my friend’s life hanging in the balance. Show up, plug in a drive, get a name, take in the sights, then be onto the next place. But at this pace, we would soon run out of time.

Still, if we wanted to save Sally, we had to keep positive.

“Well, that’s impossible,” the Actor said, gripping his saddle and sipping from a brown bottle.

I pointed at his drink. “Where’d you get that?”

“Back at the cabin place. She’s got one fridge, and it’s full of beer, man.” He banged a fist into his chest then belched. “Well, not full anymore.”

The day was dry and dusty, and the sun felt like God was trying to prove a point. Of course, given my temporary employers, I couldn’t blame ’em.

This part of the Outback was a shallow canyon. In front of us, though, it looked like a giant fist had come down and smashed the earth, shattering a section as if it were glass, creating an impression about the size of a suburban subdivision.

In the middle stood a craggy kind of peak, the sort you might expect Dracula to build his mansion on. Marilyn had said that hill had just a handful of small wooden buildings now barely able to stand under their own weight.

I felt a nudge and saw Uncle Jerry handing me a pair of binoculars.

“Thanks.”

The buildings’ windows had been busted out, and one of the structures had collapsed from decades out in the elements.

“If you take a look in the middle,” Marilyn said just off my shoulder, “you can see there’s a sorta metal pole with support beams coming off it. Don’t know what it mighta been for, but I reckon if there was a fire pit below, you could’ve hung a pot there.”

Moving my field of vision over to where she had indicated, I saw what she’d reckoned was some sort of cooking station, but I knew better. It was slightly wider at the bottom and came up to a near point. I knew what that was because I’d seen one just like it back in Scotland.

I whispered to Uncle Jerry, “I can see the dish. Just gotta get up there.”

He looked over the ridge where the old robe bridge, busted and weathered, hung down from the cliff side. Then he called over to our guide.

“Marilyn, that rope down there any good?”

She was tightening the saddle on the Actor’s horse. The one he’d so far refused to dismount, sitting up there and watching the two of us trying to work out how the hell we could get up the peak.

“Good for what?”

“I dunno, just… I mean, if we could get the rope bridge back up again, do you think it would hold?”

She put her hands on her hips and thought for a moment.

“It’s a thick twine, so it’s plenty strong, but… even if you could perform some miracle and get it back up, I don’t think it would hold the weight of the bridge anymore. Just been too many years.”

Uncle Jerry nodded. “Would it be strong enough for someone to climb up?”

“Maybe,” she said and walked over next to us, pointing at the busted bridge. “But it’s only still attached to this side, not up there.”

Then it finally hit me.

“Wait, it was cut down on that side? From up there on the peak?”

“Ah, it clicks.” Marilyn gave me a small smile, nodded, and tapped a finger on her temple. “Yeah, whoever cut the rope bridge down did it from up by the shacks. Not over here.”

“How’d they do that?”

Her smile grew. “Spooky, yeah?”

“Shit,” I said. “Shit and damn.”

When I looked over at Uncle Jerry, he was on his hands and knees, looking over the edge. His arms trembled slightly.

“Ooo-wee, I don’t like heights.”

“You’re a pilot! How can you not like heights?”

Still on all fours, he glanced back at me. “I’m not following you.”

“Never mind.”

When he got back up, he brushed off the dirt and gave me one of those Uncle Jerry smiles. This was going to be weird.

He said, “I got an unusual idea.”

“Okay.”

“But we’re going to need all that rope up here,” he said. “We can double-braid it so it’s stronger.”

“Stronger for what?”

“To climb, of course.”

“Yeah, did you hear what the nice horsey lady said?” I pointed at Marilyn. “It’s not anchored to the top. How do you expect us to climb up?”

He popped his eyebrows and rubbed his hands together. “That’s where the unusual bit comes in.”

* * *

Standing in the Aussie sun, I could actually feel myself dehydrating. Even my toenails seemed to sweat. Glancing back toward the scraggly bush, I imagined I could still see the faint whispers of dust Uncle Jerry had kicked up when he’d left.

The Actor had refused to get down from his horse, and, dressed head to toe in black gear, Marilyn had been kind enough to get him one of her umbrellas (she’d called it a brolly), which he was holding under his armpit.

Even with the umbrella shading him, the guy still had the damn pirate hat on.

“Raz, we’re wasting our time,” he said, sipping a warm beer while using the tip of his empty scabbard to scratch his ankle. “You know he’s blazing up the entire time he rides back.”

“He’s just, you know, getting ready.”

“Ha, getting stoned gets you ready for only two things. Eating snacks and going to bed. And from the potheads I’ve known, those are not mutually exclusive activities.”

All we could do was wait and be calm. The latter was harder because I could actually hear the thunk, thunk, thunk of a clock hand ticking away the seconds in my brain.

“Trust me, I dated a major pothead for a few months,” the Actor said. “A swimsuit model, sure, but when she wasn’t working, she was stoned all day.”

“Well, as you said, she was dating you.”

Middle finger? Check.

“Her day was just naps and Flaming Hot Cheetos,” he said, sipping his beer. “Coulda made a ten-man tent out of the Cheetos bags she’d throw away in just one week. Loved to eat ’em in bed, too, watching TV.”

I drew in what I’d hoped was a calming breath and slowly exhaled. Trying to find my Zen.

“Stayed up all night, pillow behind her back, munching Cheetos and watching SpongeBob,” he said. “I’d wake up and see orange dust everywhere. It looked like someone had taken a belt sander to Ernie from Sesame Street.”

“All right,” I said.

“Broke up with her because I’d show up to auditions, and they’d send me to the on-set nurse because they thought I had jaundice.”

“All right, already!” I shouted, unleashing all my frustration at once. “Don’t you have an inner monologue or something?”

“I’m bored, Raz!” he said, matching my tone. “And tired and sweaty, and this beer tastes like dogs’ balls.”

“How would ya know, mate?” Marilyn said, finally chiming in.

“What I mean—” The Actor stopped speaking, and the distinct sound of a plane’s engines cut through the air. I shielded my eyes from the sun and scanned the horizon. It took me a moment to find the little black-and-silver dot, but there he was.

Uncle Jerry had insisted he fly solo because it was dangerous. At that point, I had put my foot down and said we’d have to find another way. However, Marilyn spoke up and said people had “made a go” over the years trying to climb the peak, and they either gave up or ended up smashed on the rocks below.

There was no other way than to come at the peak from above.

This had to work.

“There’s no way this works,” the Actor said.

The tiny dot grew and grew as it got closer and then began to lose altitude.

“Oh, Lord,” Marilyn said, covering her mouth.

“No, no,” I said. “He said that was part of it. He’s got to get as low as he can to do it.”

She turned toward me, and her usual “she’ll be right” attitude was smashed by a genuine concern for my friend. I think she had a thing for the old man. Who wouldn’t? Uncle Jerry was one of the kindest, sweetest, biggest-hearted people I’d ever met.

And he was also one of the most reckless, taking chances that would make even a full-grown rabbit say, “Listen, I think I’m gonna sit this one out.”

Full-grown rabbit?

Yeah, you know. Because the rabbit is very lucky.

What are you...? Oh.

See?

I do. That’s dumb.

No it’s not! Ol’ boy’s got four rabbit’s foots. Er, rabbit’s feet. So, he’s super, super lucky.

Don’t ever say that one out loud.

Only for you, Cassie-babe.

Razzie, I don’t see how this is going to work.

He’ll work it out. Always does.

Right. Until one time he doesn’t.

The plan was impossible.

An hour earlier, we’d pulled up all the rope, and our rent-a-guide had cut some of the more frayed parts away. Then she secured the segments of rope with a complicated knot. I’d watched her do it about a dozen times, but she moved so fast, I couldn’t work it out.

“That’s pretty neat,” Uncle Jerry said, grinning like an idiot.

That earned him a warm smile. “Did a lot of ranching back when my partner was alive. This here’s called an ‘Ashley’s bend,’ but I just called ’er a ‘rope knot’ because the other one sounds like you’re talking about some Sheila’s fanny.”

“Ha, because it curves like a butt?” I said.

“Not that kind of fanny, Raz,” the Actor said from atop his horse. “The other one.”

“Oh.”

“The front fanny.”

“I got it!”

Marilyn and Uncle Jerry paid no attention to us, lost in their little knot world. She’d taken a few minutes to show him how to tie the “rope knot.” After three or four tries, he’d gotten the hang of it. Once he’d gotten it right, his rope sensei pulled on either end of the one he’d been working on and winked at him.

“Nice one, mate.”

“That’s so neat! You know any others?”

“Aw, yeah, I know dozens of rope twists,” Marilyn said, working quickly on another link. “For securing cattle, mooring a fishing boat, all of it. Even got a few that can be used for more personal reasons.” She turned to catch the man’s face and grinned when she’d seen the color rise to his cheeks.

“I’d love to see a few others,” he said, quickly adding, “Uh, for the cows and the boats.”

“Maybe you could stick around for a while, then?”

The Actor had had enough. “Maybe you guys could get a plate of spaghetti and each start on one end of a strand—”

“Mate! You’re not in this conversation.” Marilyn said, cutting him off.

“Everyone here is in your conversation! It’s the only sound for hundreds of miles!” the Actor said, though some of the chutzpah had ebbed from his voice. “Well, that and the buzzing of old-people hormones flitting around the two of you. They’re not like regular hormones. They each have tiny little canes and complain about the neighbors’ kids.”

Marilyn gave Uncle Jerry a conspiratorial look. “He always like this?”

“Usually.”

After a few more minutes, they were finished, and Uncle Jerry stood back up. His knees popped like a crackling fire, and his lips were pursed.

I said, “You all right, young man?”

He looked at me and released a breath he’d been holding. Then he smiled and patted me on the shoulder.

“Right as rain, old man! You got the spike?”

While they’d worked on the rope, I’d taken a long shaft of metal piping that had been part of the bracing mechanism for the bridge and bashed at that piping with a hammer. Marilyn was an experienced trail boss, and both of her saddle bags were bursting with supplies. Inside one of them, she’d had a claw hammer.

Here was Uncle Jerry’s plan: Tie my spike to their rope and toss said spike outta the plane above the camp. Spike digs in, and the rope dangles off the side all the way to the ground.

Then one of us would climb up. I insisted I would do it and, not surprisingly, found little resistance to that idea.

The jet was now close enough that we could make out its full shape. Once again, it nosed a little lower as it approached from the east.

Marilyn sidled up by my side, bumping into me slightly.

“Sorry, mate,” she said, her voice hollow.

“If anyone can pull it off, it’s Uncle Jerry,” I said.

“He’s off target,” the Actor said. He’d run out of beer so now sipped from a jar with little black balls inside.

“What are you drinking?”

Gripping the horse with his thighs to steady himself, he looked down. “Olive juice. Only other thing I grabbed.” Then he nodded up to the jet coming toward us. “He’s too far to the… whatever that direction is.”

Marilyn tipped her hat down to shield her eyes. “North.”

He’s going too fast. In a blink, he was what looked like a mile away and then nearly on top of it.

“Can ya see him inside?” she said, gripping my arm.

I shook my head. “Windows are too dark, but he’s so close now he won’t be in the cockpit.”

This was the next part of Uncle Jerry’s totally impossible plan. He would put the jet on autopilot, and then, with the door open, he would drop the spike and rope down atop the peak. He’d done something similar before when flying for that prick Enrico back in Mexico and had to unload a bundle of dope or whatever onto some farmland.

This spot wasn’t an entire farm, though. The top of the peak was maybe the size of two or three football fields. And moving that fast? He’d have to be the gold-medal Olympian of spike-droppers.

“Drop it, man, drop it,” I rasped, licking dry lips.

Just before the nose of the racing craft got aligned with the peak, I saw it.

“Oh, Jesus,” Marilyn said as the rope and spike lanced through the air like it had been shot out of a catapult. I tracked it as it fell, and… bullseye!

We all cheered, but our jubilation died a moment later. The rope hadn’t come down and, instead, likely coiled at the top.

“Ah, well, no harm in trying, yeah?” Marilyn said staring at her boots. “Bloody long shot, right? And as I said, people been trying to get up there for years. He ain’t the first to… give it… a go.”

Her voice trailed off, and she slowly looked up toward the sky. When I followed her gaze, I could see Uncle Jerry going higher and higher while making a slight arc.

“What is he doing?”

“Well, it was a one-shot deal,” I said, wiping the sweat from the back of my neck. “He’s probably spotted a closer place to land. But it’s not over yet. We’ll come up with—”

“Shhh!” she hissed so loudly I nearly jumped out of my boots. Both of us were staring up now as the jet made a full turn and started rounding back to the target.

“What’s he playing at?” Marilyn said, her gaze bobbing from me to the plane then back to me.

“I have no idea,” I said.

I was confused. Sure, his ropes-tied-with-spikes inventory was now at zero, so the plan had failed. But that didn’t explain in the slightest why he was making another flyby, especially in the manner he was doing it.

The Actor started to speak, but again she hushed him.

“Listen,” Marilyn said in a soft voice.

The Actor looked around as if he might see some group of baddies barreling down on us. When he saw nothing, he stared into middle space.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Right,” I said. “He’s turned the engines off.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Marilyn was pacing the cliff’s edge, and I had to, for the second time, pull her back as she waved her arms in the air, yelling weird Aussie things. I understood about seven percent of it.

“He’s gone crook in the head, your mate!” she shouted, as if she hoped that her voice might carry all the way to the jet, which was now angled down toward the abandoned settlement at the top of the peak. “I’m gonna have to go to the bottle-o and fill my esky to the bloody rim dealing with a galah like this!”

Okay, fine. She was speaking in tongues.

“What is that old bastard doing?” the Actor said, finally taking a big slurp of the panic soup Marilyn and I were choking on. “Shouldn’t those engines be on?”

“Obviously!”

We watched as the plane got closer and closer to the peak. At the angle of descent, the plane was speeding up.

“Jesus, Uncle Jerry,” I said. “It’s not worth dying over.” For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom what was going through his head. “He hasn’t been looking too good lately. You think he might, I dunno, have had a problem?”

“Oh, shit, you’re right,” the Actor said and put a fist to his chest. “He had a fake heart attack on the plane!”

“What was that?” Marilyn said, but we didn’t answer.

All we could do was stare.

The plane was dropping like a rock toward the busted-up buildings of the mine. Desperate to give my buzzing brain something to do, I held up my thumb, trying to work out how much time he’d have until—

“He’s pulling up!” Marilyn shouted.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Actor twist his legs slightly and his horse take a few paces back. If the worst happened, if Uncle Jerry did crash, would the wreckage land here?

Can’t think of that.

He was so close to us, I would swear the flaps had been yanked up hard, slowly arching the plane from its death dive, but it didn’t look like enough. My eyes stung from not blinking. I could taste blood in my mouth.

“Come on, man,” I whispered. “Come on.” Luckily, he’d begun arcing more sharply upwards. “He’s gonna clear it!”

“Old mate’s givin’ me a heart attack, he is.”

Something had gone wrong with the plane. Had to be. He’d lost power or something but fortunately had pulled up and out of his death dive. If he could just find a safe place to land.

“That still don’t look good,” Marilyn said. “He needs to flatten out. He’s still pulling up.” She cupped her hands around her mouth. “Straighten her out, UJ!”

The silent jet was now arching hard upward—a forty-five-degree angle then sharper and sharper.

He’d missed the lip of the peak by a few hundred feet but was now pitched upward at such an angle, the plane looked ready to fall out of the sky! It slowed, gradually at first then more severely.

“Why don’t the engines work?” I growled through gritted teeth.

Just as the plane, almost totally vertical now, hit its upper arc about a thousand feet above the peak, it twisted on its side.

Then something fell out of it.

“What the fuck is that?” I shouted.

Behind us, I heard the Actor cheer. “He’s bailed out. Look, there’s a chute!”

But then the jet twisted on its arc, flattening, and without a pilot, it began to head right toward us.

“Oh shit.”

Like some prehistoric bird, it was swooping down toward the earth, zeroing in on our location.

“Run!” I shouted, but Marilyn was way ahead of me, racing along the ridge and out of the plane’s path. The Actor got ahead of her, kicking his heels into his horse. I chanced a quick look to my left—bad move. I tumbled to the ground and came just inches away from falling off the edge.

“Raz!” the Actor shouted. “Get out of there!”

I was about to stand but then saw the nose of the plane about a hundred feet away and dove for cover. It whipped over me so close, the strafing wind kicked up a wall of centuries-dried dirt all around me.

I coughed wildly but was just happy to be alive to cough. The plane hadn’t hit me.

But I didn’t hear a crash either.

Then I heard something else.

Some sort of grinding or whining. It was…

The engines.

The engines had come back on.

I was blinded by the dust, choking as I tried to suck in another breath. When I stood, I felt woozy, and my legs were rubbery.

“Oh, shit,” I mumbled, realizing how close to the edge I was. I tried to steady my feet, but in the white void of dust, the world looked topsy-turvy, and my head began to spin. I started to fall.

I heard the craziest sound, like my own heartbeat banging in my ears, and I could actually feel the ground shaking.

“No ya don’t!” I felt a hand grab the arm of my cloak then yank me hard, back from the edge. For a few seconds, someone was dragging me, and all I could see was a fist gripping the cloth. A small, stubby fist.

Seconds later, the Actor let me go, and I tumbled safely to the ground.

He spun the horse back around and trotted back over to me.

“Thanks, man,” I said, still spitting out dust. “Fuckin’ Lone Ranger, now? I owe you.”

“Whatever. You owe me so much it ain’t even worth keeping tabs anymore.”

Marilyn called out as she pressed through the dust cloud, waving her arms like some ghoul in a brown mist.

“Over here,” I said. “Come this way, away from the edge.”

She helped me to my feet as the Actor trotted up beside us.

“You all right, Rasputin?” Marilyn said, dusting off my clothes. I just nodded. She then turned to the Actor. “Jiminy, that was some real riding, son. Where’d you learn that?”

“Seven seasons in the Northern Ireland badlands running from monsters, dragons, and ice queens.”

“Right.”

The Actor nodded toward the peak. “Look.”

A lone figure in black was drifting down the last few feet, but we saw them for only a second before they disappeared. A distant crashing sound rang out as they smashed through the roof of one of the mine’s busted-up old buildings.

“Well, they landed,” Marilyn said. “Sounds like that woulda hurt a bit.”

I turned back to the south and saw the plane make a tight arc, bobble its wings back and forth, and then head for a stretch of desert nearby.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “If Uncle Jerry jumped out, who the hell is flying the plane?”

* * *

Uncle Jerry took about twenty minutes to walk back to us. When Marilyn saw him, she looked back toward her camp. Impressively, she’d gone from concerned to joyous to pissed off in about thirty seconds.

Girl’s got range, I’ll give her that.

“Hey, everyone,” the old pilot said, walking a bit shakily.

“UJ, where’s my horse?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, panting a little. He eyeballed the bottle of water in my hand, but when I held it up to him, our trail boss put her hand on top of it, tilting her head slightly toward him. “Couldn’t take ’er up in the plane,” he added, “so I sent her back to camp.”

“Sent her back?” the Actor, who had never left his saddle, had found a way to anchor the umbrella in the empty scabbard of his crisscross swords. “How’d you manage that?”

Marilyn lifted her hand, and her face softened. “Right. She’ll know her way back, but I don’t like the idea of you leaving one of my ladies out there on her own.”

“She’s a big girl.” Uncle Jerry smiled. He pointed at the bottle of water in my hand, got a nod of approval from me, then grabbed it and drank the entire bottle. “I promise I wouldn’ta sent her along if I didn’t think she’d be all right.”

“Fine, the horse is safe,” I said and spun toward to Uncle Jerry. “Now, spill it.”

He held up the bottle, tipped the open end toward the ground, and grinned at me. “Drank it all.”

No one laughed. We waited for our explanation.

“Funny thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his sweaty neck. “I may have, uh, left out some details about what went on back in Scotland.”

The Actor said, “You don’t say?”

I turned back to look at the abandoned mine at the top of the peak. “What? That’s the henchman?”

“Henchwoman,” Uncle Jerry said.

“Whatever,” the Actor said.

* * *

Nofoto groaned as she rolled onto her side. Through the light of the hole she’d made crashing through the old tin roof, she checked for bodily damage. Fortunately, some of the rope of the parachute had gotten caught in the flimsy rafters, so the last few feet weren’t at full speed.

Slowly, she stood, unclipped the harness, and dropped it to the floor. She spun in a circle to get a view of her surroundings.

From above, she’d seen that there were three structures. Next to this one was a fat, rusted cylinder about the size of an SUV. She was happy she hadn’t hit that.

This place was where the miners had slept. A wooden table in the center of the room had two legs that had either been broken or just become brittle over the past century and crumbled under the weight.

On the floor next to the table lay metal plates and utensils covered in dirt and silt.

Along the walls on three sides were six bunks in sets of two. They had no mattresses, but some organic material on a few of them looked like straw.

The linens were another story.

She lifted one of them up and found it tattered, worn. A huge black stain at one end flowered out from where the head or feet might have been. She knew instantly what that was because, in her years of working for Induna, she’d seen a lot of it.

“Blood,” she whispered to herself.

She heard voices.

Nofoto’s eyes darted around the room, looking for some sort of weapon. Then she remembered the utensils on the floor. She dropped to the ground, ran her hand through the silt, and found what she needed.

A carving knife. Rusted and chipped, but it would kill a man just the same.

Turning in the direction she’d heard the voices, she shouted, “Who is there? Come out!”

The chattering was low and menacing, but when no one revealed themselves, she realized that if an attacker came into the cabin, she’d be trapped. In four quick strides, she ran and kicked the door open, which fell away and landed in the dirt, spitting up a cloud of dust.

No one was outside.

Slowly, she rounded the building. At the corner, she peeked around and once again saw the big metal cylinder.

It was gurgling.

“Water tank,” she said, trying to calm her nerves. Above the tank, a pipe led to a makeshift gutter system that surrounded the structure. Most of the gutters had fallen away. However, a recent desert rain must have given the catchment system a bit of life. It was bubbling and gurgling with water no one should ever drink.

During the panic in the skies above, the old American pilot had not given her any water—he didn’t have time. But he did promise that if she performed her task, he would fly her anywhere she wanted to go.

He’d spared her life, so she allowed herself to trust that promise. And she would have done anything to get away from Induna.

This had been her chance, the only one in nearly six years as his servant, and she’d grabbed it with both hands. He’d told her what she needed to do, so she left the gurgling tank behind and started checking out the other rundown cabins.

The tiny one behind the sleeping quarters had folded in on itself, but she knew from the smell what it had been. She’d seen American westerns as a kid.

“Outhouse,” she said. “Strange name for a place to do toilet.”

Again, the voices chattered behind her, and she spun, knife raised. Then, she laughed.

Eyeballing the massive container, she said “Shut up, stupid tank!”

Between the sleeping quarters and the second building, she passed by a massive hole in the ground, like a well but many times larger. In the middle of it was, as the pilot had said, a satellite dish. Of course, someone had added the dish many years after the miners had left. By whom? She didn’t know.

And she didn’t care.

From the outside, the second building looked nearly as run-down as the first. However, inside, there was—looking totally incongruous with the rotting wooden boards and piles of pickaxes, shovels, and other digging implements—a large clear-plastic box.

“A room within a room,” she said quietly, and the voices behind her seemed to agree. She rolled her eyes at the sound, but it still unnerved her. She felt being annoyed by it might lessen the jitters, and it did somewhat.

She traced a thick black cord from the base of the Plexiglass box. It was hastily strung up and fed out the window. Outside was an area about the size of two doors, propped up with metal framing, facing north.

This was the “black glass” she’d seen from above. A solar array to power the very old computer inside the box.

Again, the voices crawled across the ground and up her spine. She needed to finish the job and get out of here.

She took nearly two minutes to find a way into the box but eventually found one corner had hinges. One of its walls was also a type of door. She traced her fingers to the opposite side of the hinges, felt for a ridge, pressed her nails into the gap, and pulled.

Twice, she’d had to kick away built-up dirt to open the door and managed only to make a space big enough to slip through. When it had opened, there came a soft sucking sound.

Inside, the air was stale but breathable.

The small plastic box, just big enough for a cement stand and the computer setup, was a tight squeeze, and she felt like she was struggling for breath. She was sweating harder now and not solely from the heat.

Her hands quickly ran up and down her jacket, and she fumbled through a few pockets. Each time she came up empty, her fingers would move faster to the next pocket, shaking more and more each time.

“Which one—?”

Finally, she found the USB stick the old man had given her. She pulled it out, careful not to let it slip between her sweaty fingers. Wiping the dust away from the front of the computer, she found a small array of ports and plugged the stick in.

The computer’s screen whirred to life, startling her, and she bumped the back of her head on the plexiglass.

“Ow!”

Unreadable characters flew by. A moment later, she heard the grinding whirl of some massive contraption just beneath the floor.

Exiting the box, she took in a few clean breaths and, out the door, could see the satellite dish inside the large hole tilt and turn. After a few seconds, it stopped.

She turned back to peer in the box and squinted to read the screen.

Interlinked with BadSat 11.41. Declination 37.2 degrees…

She smiled and headed to the door but then realized she’d seen something blinking on the bottom of the screen. Looking back again, she saw another message.

Hit F13 for incoming message from Watcher.

She looked toward the gap of the plexiglass and was tempted to hit the key, wherever it was, but she hadn’t come to read anyone’s email, just to put the stick into the computer and make sure the big dish moved.

“It did, so I’m done,” she said and released a long breath.

She stood and turned to leave, but once she reached the door, she heard a buzzing sound behind her. When she turned, the plastic box was alight with an eerie green electric glow.

Nofoto burst from the structure and drew in a few deep breaths, her cold sweat warmed by the punishing Aussie sun.

Now she had to get down the side again, some twenty stories up, but other than the incredible danger involved, that part would be easy enough.

The spike-and-rope setup had not fallen point down and missed its target, but it had hit its target. Next to the rear edge of the peak, the spike and rope lay glimmering in the sun. The long, long stretch of rope had collected in a messy heap like a pile of spaghetti for a giant.

It was so hot she could feel her head spinning slightly.

“Time to go.”

She grabbed the spike and carried it over to the other side of the peak, where she jammed it into the hard dirt about ten feet from the edge. Then she yanked all the rope toward her. It took a few minutes, and her arms ached by the end of the effort, but she still got all of the rope over to this side of the landing.

Nofoto flattened herself down and crawled to the edge.

Below, she could see three people and two horses. The old pilot waved at her and called up, but this far away, she couldn’t hear him.

Edging away from the lip, again she heard the gurgling and was happy that soon, she’d be leaving that creepy sound far, far behind.

“Oi,” a man’s voice said. “Be careful, lass. She’s a big drop, that one.”

* * *

We watched as the woman dressed in black came down the rope. The four of us took turns keeping it steady below, each of us holding on as long as we could.

“Christ, I’m going to have scars after this,” the Actor said as he handed the rope off to Marilyn, who pulled hard, tightening it around the large rock in front of us. He stared upward, blocking out the sun with his hand. “She’s sliding part of the way. That girl keeps up like that, and we won’t have to hold the rope—she’ll come down the express route.”

He was right.

From the moment she’d come over the ridge, the woman Uncle Jerry had called Nofoto had been descending like a bomb was about to explode up top. She slid, slipped, and nearly lost her grip entirely several times.

And every now and then, she stared up at the top of the peak, maybe because she was gauging her progress and didn’t want to look below. I wouldn’t have blamed her.

About twenty feet from the ground, she jumped.

No, not jumped.

She was falling, and above her, the rope looked like a piece of cooked spaghetti, rubbery and twisting. Then the top end of it raced toward us like a snake about to strike.

I shouted, “Get out of the way!”

A half second later, the spike bit into the dirt right between Uncle Jerry’s feet. It had come so close because the crazy old coot had stepped toward it, and I only realized why when I saw the tiny woman cradled in his arms.

She twisted out of his grip and landed on both feet.

Uncle Jerry said, “Nice, Nofoto! Did you—”

The woman screamed, covered her ears, and ran toward Marilyn, who took a half step back. At the last moment, the terrified woman swung around the trail boss and hid behind her.

“That was,” the Actor said, “unexpected.”

The three of us could only stare. When Uncle Jerry took a step toward the woman, she yelped, shrinking even tighter to Marilyn.

I looked over at my friend. “What’s that all about?”

He shrugged and shook his head.

Marilyn slowly turned around and took the shaking woman into her arms, speaking softly. When we started to approach, the trail boss held an open palm out, and we stopped in our tracks.

After a minute, Nofoto’s breathing slowed, and the older woman squeezed her shoulder.

“Must have been a terrifying jump, that,” she said. “Very impressive.”

The woman looked around, then up, then back at us and turned slightly sheepish. When I held up our last bottle of water, she nodded. I handed it to her, and she guzzled it down.

“I am grateful, thank you,” I said.

“It’s fine,” Nofoto said, eyes cutting to the top of the peak. “Can we get out of here now? I want to go home.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Uncle Jerry said, beaming. “I don’t blame ya for being shook up. That jump woulda scared the bejesus out of me too.”

“No, no. Not… not the jump,” she said, her words coming fast now. “Induna had us trained in all sorts of combat. I’ve parachuted in far more dangerous situations. No one was shooting at me this time.”

“Never had to train for parachuting,” the Actor said. We glared at him, and he shrugged. “Medieval times and all that. No planes.”

I grinned. “That is a phrase, I’ve learned, that can lead to dangerous ideas.”

The henchwoman didn’t look so hench-y anymore. She just looked like a young woman. And she was terrified. “Can we please leave, now?”

“Of course, of course,” Marilyn said. “You can ride back to the camp with me. UJ, why don’t you hop up with your mouthy friend? Let’s get this girl out of the heat.”

I felt like a total dick, but we’d come here for a reason.

I said, “Uncle Jerry said he’d explained to you what to, you know, do.”

“Yes, yes! The dish moved, and the computer said it was lined up. It is done.”

Smiling, I said, “Great, great. That’s great!” Then I added, “Did you get the name?”

Standing next to Marilyn’s horse now, Nofoto turned back to me. Then she looked at Uncle Jerry and shrugged.

“How was she supposed to do that?” he said.

My heart sank into my stomach. He’d tried to help, but I’d kept that part from him for his protection. He didn’t know how I was getting the names.

“There would have been a message on the screen,” I said, my eyes darting from Uncle Jerry to the strange woman. “Hit a key, and a message would pop up.”

Nofoto gritted her teeth, holding her hands to her ears. “No, no!” she said, but then she dropped her arms. “Yes, it said something about a message.”

“Did you—?”

“No! I had no time, and I wasn’t staying up there,” she said, trembling. Then she started to weep.

Helping Nofoto up onto the horse, Marilyn said, “I think she’s done with twenty questions, mate. If you want to go play with the computer, you’ll have to hike up there yourself.”

I looked over to where the spike had tumbled off the cliff side and skewered the ground.

“There’s no way up now!” I said. “The damn spike came out.”

“Yeah, and she nearly died when it did!”

She was right. I apologized to Nofoto, who wasn’t really listening to any of us anymore. Uncle Jerry came up beside me with a sad smile.

“Sorry, I thought I was helping,” he said.

“You did, man. Absolutely,” I said then punched him lightly on the shoulder. “You lifted my drive. I didn’t even notice.”

“Some time ago, a young boy in Morocco taught me a few things he knew. Good thief, that kid was.” He flashed one of those Uncle Jerry smiles at me. “Was the name a big deal, then?”

“Just, you know, a side job,” I said. “Another task from the Old Man.”

“Right. Like that builder,” he said, nodding slowly. “Is the name important?”

“Oh,” I said as casually as I could. “Only because the fate of the entire world is at stake. Every living creature on this planet.”

The Actor, who was trotting in a circle, slowly turned his horse toward me.

“What did you say?”

“The Old Man said no one else was supposed to even know about the names,” I said. “Now everybody and their dog knows. But some big war’s coming, and somehow those names were key.” I looked up at the peak again. “I gotta find some way up.”

At that, both Uncle Jerry and the Actor protested, each shouting over the other with words like “danger,” “impossible,” and a few utterances of “death” thrown in there.

Then, over their protestations, Nofoto said something.

I waved the other men’s words off and turned to her. “What did you say?”

Marilyn scowled at me. “Will you leave the poor child alone now? She’s been through enough for whatever madness all of this is! I wish I’d never been a part of it.”

Uncle Jerry said, “Marilyn, I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t wanna hear it, UJ. I’ll get you fellas back to the camp, and once you’ve paid me, you lot can clear out. I don’t want any more of this.”

Before Uncle Jerry could speak again, Nofoto’s voice split the air.

“A name,” she said, her voice hollow and flat. “Yes. Yes, his name.”

“His?” I said. “His name?”

The young woman closed her eyes and breathed slowly. When she opened them, she stared right at me.

“He said his name to me.”

“Wait, he saw you?”

She shrugged. The Devil had warned me: Don’t let them see you.

Oh, shit.

“Did he see you, Nofoto?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But I could not see him, so I don’t know.”

I tried again. “Who? What was his name?”

She said in a voice barely above a whisper, “Ned Kelly.”

“Who?” the Actor said, frowning.

Marilyn laughed then clapped. “Okay, enough fun. We’re done. Let’s go.”

“The guy who spoke to you,” Uncle Jerry said, “told you his name was Ned Kelly?”

Nofoto nodded and once again closed her eyes.

“She had a fright, that was all,” Marilyn said, nudging her horse forward. “Ned Kelly was a gangster around these parts. Notorious.”

Now the Actor looked unsettled. “Gangster? He’s here? Shit, I’m with the kooky old lady. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“He ain’t anywhere around these parts anymore,” Marilyn said, slowly turning her horse toward us. “Ned Kelly’s been dead one hundred and fifty years! She just got spooked is all.”

“I think he was…” Nofoto said, her eyes darting all around us. “He was isipoki.”

“No way.” Uncle Jerry said and held his breath. “Are you joking?”

“What does that—” I started to ask but then saw that the young woman had buried her face into the back of Marilyn’s jacket. So I turned to Uncle Jerry. “What does that mean?”

“Isipoki is… well, it’s their word for, um, ghost.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

To me, the inside of the jet’s cockpit was something out of a nightmare. So many switches, toggles, dials, buttons, and levers. And I had no idea what any of it did. Except the navsat.

That screen showed a white plane heading from the southern tip of Africa to southeastern China.

“Fujian province,” I said. “Do we know what’s there?”

“Looked it up on the Internet,” Uncle Jerry said and pointed at a device just off his shoulder. When the screen came alive, he made a noise and swiped the image away.

“What does Miley Cyrus’s Instagram page have to do with where we’re going?”

“Whoops,” he said, spun around, and hit the page back button a few times. “Don’t mind that. Hell of a singer, that girl.”

“Does the silver thong help her sing?”

His cheeks reddened, and he finally got to the page he’d been reading earlier.

“Searched around for what might be there, and, these days, it don’t look like much. Just mainly hills and rivers, but I expect there’ll be farmland out that way. They hafta feed a billion people, so they got patches everywhere there’s arable land.”

Right. I’d nearly forgotten that he and the Actor had spent a few months in the country doing a few jobs for the film industry there.

“What about previously? The last two sites we hit were old.”

“Well, they don’t make old like China does. People have been scrabbling around that part of the world since before baby Jesus.”

“Okay.”

“But over the years, there would have been farms or castles or temples,” he said, leaning toward the screen and scanning. “I suppose we’ll find out when we touch down.”

I nodded slowly, realizing I was dead tired.

“I’m going to lie down for a few hours then,” I said. “You should try to get some sleep too.”

“Nearly there, Razzie.” He smiled at me.

Plopping back into the lounger, I stared at the back of the plane. Of course, the Actor had snagged Induna’s private bedroom once we’d returned Nofoto to her home in South Africa.

The woman’s entire demeanor had changed since she’d held a rifle to my head. Now that she was officially out of Induna’s service, she sort of reverted to who she might have been if things had been different for her.

After we lifted off from Australia, she’d explained that, as a kid, she and some other children in her village had been recruited into a local warlord’s crew. After two years of various wars and battles for hardscrabble land, her employer had changed three times. Each time, a new warlord had killed his predecessor.

By the time she’d gotten on the plane with the Actor and Uncle Jerry, she’d been basically enslaved to Induna for the better part of two years. And that man had taken everything to the next level.

“Induna hates the world,” she’d said. “I don’t know his story, but you saw the man’s face, the scarring. For as bad as my time was in the service of evil men, he may have had it far worse.”

“Doesn’t make it okay,” Uncle Jerry said as he came back and sat next to me. “What he did to you. Just because life deals you a shit hand doesn’t mean you gotta start dealing it to everyone else.”

“Beautiful,” the Actor said, slowly spinning in his lounger, spooning baked beans from a can into his mouth. “You should put that on a motivational poster.”

Uncle Jerry had a way of taking in younger people like they were nieces or nephews, which was probably how he’d earned the name. And basically everyone he knew was younger, so I’d only seen him treat them with kindness and warmth. He hadn’t had the heart to leave the young woman tied up and left behind in Scotland’s middle of nowhere, despite her being one of Induna’s goons.

When I’d asked why he hadn’t just told us that in the first place, he said at first, he didn’t know how to do that without sounding like a fool. And the farther we got into our trip to Australia, the harder it became to come clean.

I said, a bit pompously, “When at last showing kindness is foolish, we are a world of fools.”

The Actor gave me a withering look. No poster for me.

Nofoto said, “I am sorry for nearly killing your friends, Rasputin.”

“Ah, think nothing of it,” Uncle Jerry said before I could answer. “I’ve had tons of people trying to kill me. Just another day in the office.”

For the first time, she actually laughed. Then, as quickly as her laughter had come, she darkened again.

“That man on top of the cliff?” she said in a low voice, her eyes cast down. “That is important to you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said.

“But you said it was important to all of us. Everyone,” she said. I nodded. For a moment, her eyes darted around the small cabin.

“Listen, you don’t—”

“Up there,” she blurted out. “Something about that was familiar.”

“How do you mean?”

The young woman’s eyes went to the door, to the windows, then back to the door. Uncle Jerry smiled, chuckling.

“We’re thirty thousand feet up in the air, darlin’! There ain’t no one that can get to you up here.”

Her face snapped toward him, wide-eyed and serious.

“You don’t know that!”

She’d spoken with such ferocity, the two of us just sat and waited for her to speak again. Slowly, Nofoto shook her head then looked out the window to a clear blue sky.

“There was one time when we were in America, a few months ago now,” she said. “I’d been excited, because I had never been there, but we only landed, went to a place, and then returned.”

“A place?” I asked.

“I think you call it a fairground. Induna had a meeting there,” she said.

“At a fair? Is he working with clowns?” Uncle Jerry said. “Hate to think of warlords and clowns teaming up. That’s like outta the Book of Revelation or something.”

I looked at my friend’s face, waiting for him to smile again. Nope. Totally serious.

“Okay,” I said.

“It was closed. Everything boarded up for the season, I heard one person say,” she said. “Too cold.”

“Must have been somewhere up north,” the Actor said.

I shot him a look. “You think?”

Again, Nofoto scanned the small space. Everyone was quiet. Except for the man slurping beans out of a can. Nasty.

“When he went for this meeting, he met no one,” she finally said. “It was only my job to guard the door while he went inside a big building. Induna strutted around like he was inspecting it. But he was also talking, and whoever he was talking to was not there!”

“I’m not following you,” I said.

“I could hear two people talking, voices, but when he would turn to speak—nothing. Empty space.”

“Wait,” Uncle Jerry said, leaning forward on his chair. “You mean like a speakerphone or something?”

She shook her head violently and squeezed her eyes shut.

“No!” Her lip trembled as she continued. “When I asked the others if they could also hear the voice, they laughed at me. But I could hear it.”

The truth clicked for Uncle Jerry first. “Isipoki?”

She nodded.

“No way. That’s nuts,” I said. “Ghosts aren’t real!”

The Actor said, “Says the man working for the Devil, who’s pals with a half angel and who saw me fight a demigod in a thousand-year-old pub.”

Uncle Jerry lit up. “Bro! You fought a demigod?”

“And won,” the other man said.

“On a technicality,” I said, frowning. “Okay, let’s say for the sake of argument that, yes, you heard, uh, ghost voices.”

“Just the one,” she corrected me.

“Why would an African warlord be talking to ghosts?”

“As I said, Induna hates the world,” she said and shrugged. “So whatever it is, it is not good.”

“And you think you heard that same voice up at the abandoned mine?” I asked.

“No, not the same voice but the same… sound? It’s hard to explain, but the voice is like a very loud thought in your head. But exact words, talking. It was talking with no sound.”

“Okay.”

She frowned at me. “And that is the same sound of voice I heard from your Ned Kelly person. No one around, just a crisp and clear and hateful voice.”

When we’d finally landed near Nofoto’s hometown, we’d attracted a small crowd. I supposed you could expect that when you landed a flashy jet in the heart of arid African farmland. When we’d emerged, we saw a sea of faces, all smiling.

Except for a few men.

Obviously, they’d expected Induna to be exiting the plane. Not some lanky old man and a chubby ex-DJ. But when Nofoto finally stuck her head out and scanned the crowd, she burst into a gigantic smile between us and ran down the short steps.

An older woman burst from the group, and the two embraced, sharing excited kisses and chattering words I didn’t understand.

“Sounds like that’s her mom,” Uncle Jerry said, his voice a bit phlegmy. “Why don’t you guys chill out in the plane, and I’ll ask where we can get a fuel-up around these parts.”

He descended the stairs and walked over to four older men, raising a hand up and speaking in, from what I could pick up, broken bits of Zulu. How the hell’d he ever come to learn Zulu?

Before I headed back in, I took one more look at the former henchman. Or henchwoman, whatever.

Five other women gathered around her now, all of them laughing and hugging, speaking so quickly and all at once. I didn’t imagine anyone could really understand anything they said.

They don’t have to understand, Razzie. See that? That’s called joy.

They do look very happy.

Yes. And the best part is, that’s available to everybody.

Not you. You’re not here anymore, Cassie.

But you are. You need to find someone.

What? Hell no!

Yes, look at them. Don’t you want to feel that kind of love again?

I’ve got all the love I need.

You don’t.

Yes I do, baby doll. You said you’d wait for me wherever you were, right?

Of course, but—

Then that’s what I’m working on. Making sure that one day I get back to you.

And I told you, Raz, that would take “doing good.” Very good.

Right.

So how does all of this fit into that?

Despite the joyous scene in front of me, I frowned.

I’m trying to save a friend’s life! Isn’t that doing good?

By working for the Devil? Again?

A technicality.

You’re on thin ice, love. Thin. Ice.

“I’ve spent my whole life on thin ice,” I’d mumbled, turning back into the plane. “Good thing I know how to skate real fast.”

* * *

I felt a hand on my shoulder, gently waking me up. Before I could even open my eyes, I smelled the ganja wafting off of him.

“Hey, Raz, we’re landing in about ten minutes. Might wanna buckle up.”

“Thanks, Uncle Jerry,” I said, but I was so tired I began to drift right back to sleep—until an empty water bottle bounced off my head.

“Hey, man, we’re landing,” the Actor said. I opened my eyes and saw him plop into a chair and strap on his seat belt. Then he held up a tablet computer. “I found something.”

“Yeah, you showed me before,” I said, slowly easing up into my chair. “Neat. You’ve got an iPad.”

“And I was googling around—”

“Thought you were watching movies.”

“I was. The entire Lord of the Rings trilogy—the extended cuts, no less—and most of the Fast & Furious ones. Tokyo Drift is my fave. I downloaded it in case you wanna watch it.”

“No, I don’t want to watch it!” I shouted, surprised at how quickly my anger burst to the surface. “We’re not on vacation, man! I’ve got less than two days to finish this job or Sally explodes.”

“Dude, where is she?” He scowled at me and waved his short arms around the room. “You lost her in the ocean. She’s probably twenty thousand leagues under the sea, being cornholed by a blue whale or something.”

“Shut up,” I said.

Our pilot had located a landing place only a mile away from our next site. We touched down. When I began unstrapping Bucephalus from the tie-down restraints, the bike shimmied like it was thrilled to get out and stretch its legs. Or wheels. Whatever.

A few minutes later, Boo had gotten us to within a quarter mile of the coordinates. But then something stood in our way.

“Is this a mountain?” Uncle Jerry said.

“I don’t know the classifications between mountain and hill,” I said, “but it is a big-ass hunk of stone that we gotta climb to get to the next dish.”

Uncle Jerry looked around and squinted for a moment. Then he spun back and looked at the bike.

“Can Boo get us up there? Go a lot quicker.”

I shrugged. “Could try, but the three of us going up the uneven terrain would be tricky. And there’s no telling if some of that ground might give way.”

The Actor said, “Why don’t we ask the guy selling T-shirts over there?”

We both looked at where he was pointing. Sure enough, at the base of the maybe-mountain, a tiny stand was set up in front of a dark cave. No one else was around for miles and miles, but someone was sitting here beneath a four-post umbrella setup selling shit.

“Huh,” I said.

“For being a socialist market economy, it does seem they fully embrace the tenets of capitalism,” Uncle Jerry said, earning stares from the Actor and me. “Of course, they’d never officially tell you that.”

“Huh,” I said.

We left Boo parked next to a small outcropping of rocks and walked toward the old man at what was, sure enough, a T-shirt stand. There were mugs and water bottles and even snow globes.

As we approached, the man in his fifties saw us, got out of his chair with a big grin, and clasped his hands in front of himself.

“Welcome!” he said as we approached. “Have you booked a reservation?”

The three of us exchanged glances.

“Reservation for…?”

“For the tour, of course,” he said, his smile never wavering. “My wife did not tell me we had a group today, so she is not currently here. She knows these tunnels far better than I do.”

“You get a lot of tourists out here, sir?” Uncle Jerry asked him.

The man’s smile briefly faltered. “You are the first in some time. We are a start-up!” Smile was back.

“How much for the T-shirt?”

“In US money?” the man said then scribbled on a pad in front of him. “Five hundred dollars.”

“What?” the Actor said. “What is it made out of, baby hair?”

He shrugged. “Cotton. Made in USA.”

A pop-up stand in China selling T-shirts made in the US?

Irony?

I wasn’t sure. Didn’t matter.

“That’s a bit steep for a T-shirt,” the Actor said.

“As I said, we don’t get a lot of customers out here, so there is a bit of a markup to make up for the slow foot traffic.”

We were wasting time and needed to find a way up the hill to find the next dish. Then I had a thought—what if our direction wasn’t up?

“How far back do those tunnels go?”

The man cast a cursory look over his shoulder then began digging through a small stack of leaflets in front of him.

“About halfway into the side of the mountain,” he said. “These were the secret tunnels of a sect of Shaolin monks. Very powerful. And very bored for much of the time, so they spent a lot of time digging. If you want to go on a self-tour, I have a map.”

I almost regretted asking.

“How much for the map?”

He smiled. “Three hundred fifty US dollars.”

“It’s a piece of paper,” the Actor said, his voice strained as he snatched the monochromatic map from the man’s hand. “And it’s photocopied!”

“Well, you are maybe less paying for a map and more for the assurance that you will be able to find your way back out. Without the map, you would get lost. That is worth a few Benjamins, yes?”

I turned away from the salesman and huddled with my friends.

“It’d make sense that the Old Man’s setup would be hidden out of sight. Maybe it’s not over the mountain but in.”

Uncle Jerry said, “That signal can get through rock?”

I shrugged. “Hell tech.”

Turning back around, I saw the Actor fingering his way through a bunch of smaller trinkets—pens, postcards, ball caps.

I pointed at the entrance to the tunnels. “Dark in there. I suppose you sell pricey flashlights.”

“Not sell. Rent them by the hour.”

“Great,” I said. “Don’t tell me the price, but give us three of them. And one of your maps, please.”

“Hold on!” the Actor said. “I’m payin’, so yeah, I’d like to know the price.”

The man wrote the total cost down on a pad, erasing it several times then rewriting. When he turned the pad toward us, my friend stumbled back a step.

“You’ve got plenty of dough,” Uncle Jerry said.

“But I like to keep it,” the Actor said. “That’s what rich people do!”

“It is worth it, my friend,” the salesman said. “Oh! And every item purchased earns points to get bonus items.” He looked at me and popped his eyebrows. “I learned of this in a business book. Warren Buffet.”

“Great.”

“Uh, so what do we get with—” Uncle Jerry looked at the pad. “Seventeen points?”

The man disappeared beneath the table and popped back up, grinning from ear to ear. We stared at the item in his hand: a tiny plastic Shaolin monk. If they’d had action figures three thousand years ago, they would have had this.

“I… love it.” Uncle Jerry reached forward and took the tiny figure. “He will be mine, and I will name him George.”

As the Actor begrudgingly pulled a credit card out of one of his pirate costume’s pockets, I looked at the gaping maw of the tunnel ahead of us. Alarm bells went off in my brain.

“This seems unnecessarily dangerous.”

Uncle Jerry put a hand on my shoulder. “It’s all unnecessarily dangerous, Razzie.”

I turned to see he’d propped his little toy on my shoulder. When he tilted the figure toward me, I couldn’t help but smile.

I said, “I hope George ain’t afraid of the dark.”

* * *

Here was what I knew about monks: nothing.

Oh, except maybe they wore dark-brown robes, probably burlap or gingham, tied with a thick dirty rope. And they had that male pattern baldness thing that made it look like if you wanted to hide it, you could simply convert and cover your head with a yarmulke.

Of course, the extent of my monk research was gleaned from Hollywood’s depiction of Robin Hood’s buddy Friar Tuck. And, yeah, he was a friar but probably same diff, right?

Here was what I learned about monks after twenty minutes of snaking through a five hundred-year-old tunnel system built by them: nothing.

The Actor led the way, tracing his flashlight beam in circles around the walls as we walked.

He said, “It’s all just a few hundred million tons of rock waiting to smash us into good-looking juice.”

The T-shirt stand guy had advised us to take the outer track and stay clear of the tighter circles in the center. “Some of that has undergone a bit of rockfall, so repairs have been scheduled. For when, I do not know. We are not a high priority to the government.”

We kept to the outer track but with each turn saw only more rock.

“This is totally the place where some big, Jurassic-era, prehistoric spider would hole up, get real hungry, and wait.”

“Dude, don’t talk about spiders,” Uncle Jerry said, his voice low. “You’re gonna get my mind reeling.”

I said, “I second that emotion.”

For another twenty minutes, we walked and walked and walked, making three turns at splits. Then we began to arch around the topmost edge of the tunnels. The silence was giving me the willies, as was the Actor’s spider threat, real or imagined. So I started a conversation to fill the quiet.

“Okay, despite the Old Man saying no one else should know about the names, you guys both do. Any thoughts on what they might mean?”

The Actor stopped in his tracks and shone the beam in my face.

“Boo,” I said flatly.

“Tried to tell you on the plane,” he said, dropping the light to the tunnel floor, “but you got all shitty with me.”

“When?” I said. “No I didn’t.”

“Yeah, ya did. I’m out here trying to help you, and all I’m getting is grief,” he said then started ahead again, his flashlight’s beam tracing the walls once more. “After we got the Ned Kelly name, I looked into the guy. Crazy son of a bitch, real anti-authority type. Criminal, cop killer. Ran with gangs, led gangs, stole horses, all that sort of shit.”

“Bit of a folk hero to a lot of Aussies,” Uncle Jerry said.

“Yeah, makes sense,” the Actor said. “I mean, they’re all descendants of criminals shipped out because they were too batshit for even nineteenth-century England, which, I might add, was so violent someone had to invent fingerprinting just to put the roiling hordes of murderers behind bars.”

“Not true,” I said.

He looked over his shoulder at me. “Which part?”

“Uh,” I said. “Don’t remember. You packed a lot in there.”

“Anyway, that got me thinking maybe our first name, William Hare, wasn’t some global building magnate or whatever. Turns out, if we’re looking for a Ned Kelly type, there was in fact a dude in Scotland years ago named William Hare. And, hoo boy, that guy was next level.”

For the next few minutes, the Actor regaled us with the story.

William Hare, or at least one William Hare, had gone from opportunist to serial murderer nearly over night. He’d partnered with a buddy named Burke, also a William, which would have been confusing if they’d played pick-up basketball with a group of friends.

Although you wouldn’t have wanted to be the Billies’ friend.

At the time, as our tunnel narrator explained it, Edinburgh prided itself on being a world leader in the study of anatomy. So high dollar was paid by teaching colleges if you could supply then with cadavers.

Blechy.

At some point, the Billies were short on dough. Someone who they knew died, and they traded the body in like an LA homeless woman might do with a shopping cart full of aluminum cans.

Cash in hand for dead guy, they looked for more bodies but—tricky, that—you couldn’t just dig ’em outta the grave. Had to be fresh.

“So the bad Billies go out and find people who are, as you might say, in a precadaver state,” the Actor said. “Follow drunks down alleys or lure people back to their homes, that sort of thing. Smash to the head, railroad spike to the neck, whatever.”

“Holy shit,” Uncle Jerry said, coughing out some smoke.

“Eventually, they get busted, but not before killing at least sixteen people,” the Actor said and turned toward us theatrically. “All in the name of science.”

“Whatever,” I said. “They did it for the dough.”

“Of course they did!” our storyteller said, leading on again. “Ol’ William Hare saved himself by basically turning state’s evidence on Billy Burke. Burke got the rope-swing necklace, and Hare left town and was never seen again.”

For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom what a Scotsman and an Aussie from two centuries earlier had to do with each other. Except for the cold-blooded-murder shit. But why would the Old Man be looking to find out their names?

Every answer birthed just more questions.

“The story doesn’t end there,” our man said then adopted a professorial tone. “Scotland, as you know, is where God put all the leftover scraps after making the rest of the world.”

“Jesus, man,” I said.

“Chunks of rock, hunks of emerald-green meadows, craggy hills. Scotsmen.”

“And you wonder why people don’t like you?”

The Actor chuckled. “I don’t care what people think of me,” he said. “So without much to do but get ripped on whiskey, they start making up stories about Hare after the guy goes missing without a trace.”

“Like he’s the bogeyman or something,” Uncle Jerry said.

“Exactly,” the Actor said, enjoying his performance even more than we were. “Years later, some kids were chasing a dog and ended up in these caves, right? Inside, they find all these tiny wooden dolls, real small. Like figurines.”

My ganja-smoking friend dug into his pocket and pulled out his plastic monk. “Like this?”

The Actor looked back. “Yeah, probably, but they were wood and cloth,” he said. “Now there are some theories that these were some old talismans that sailors’ wives used to make. Some sort of prayer dolls or something to get their men home safely.”

“And the other theories?”

I could hear the smile in his voice now. “Well, some think these dolls represented a dozen or so murdered children. Like some tokens a crazed serial killer could keep around to remember his handiwork.”

He then spun around and popped his eyebrows at me.

I said, “You’re enjoying all this murder and mayhem far too much, man.”

“It passes the time.”

“I’m lost,” Uncle Jerry said. “Why are you talking about dolls again?”

The Actor stopped for a moment, shone his light up at a split in the tunnel, then looked down again at his map. Then he shone it back up.

“Wait, did we…?” He turned and looked back the way we came.

“Goddamn it, man,” I said. “Did you get us lost?”

“No! There are only… three splits on the map, and we’ve turned left three times to take the outer track like the T-shirt guy said.”

I snatched the map from him and shone my own light on it. He was right. I remembered taking a slight left three times, which should have put us on the downward track back toward the entrance of the cave.

But this was a fourth turn.

Not on the map.

“Okay. Okay,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Maybe this is good. If this part isn’t on the map, it could lead us to what we’re looking for.”

I handed the map back to our tour leader, who stared at it like it suddenly was written in a foreign language.

“Well, I mean,” Uncle Jerry said, “old fella said keep left, so we should keep left.”

Going deeper and deeper into the tunnel felt like slowly being swallowed. I was getting uneasy, and I could feel the same discomfort oozing off my friends. Well, one of them was oozing a mixture of nervousness and THC.

“So, the dolls?” I asked the Actor to get the conversation going again. “You were saying?”

“Right. Right,” he said and cleared his throat. “Some Edinburgh locals posit that if in fact these tiny dolls were some sick totems of a serial murderer, the best known and only known serial murder in those parts was…?”

“William Hare,” I said.

Uncle Jerry motioned to a small cluster of rocks next to the wall, shuffled toward them, and sat down.

“Think I’ve had enough of murder stories for a while,” he said. “I’m weirded out enough being in this tunnel.”

I nodded, again trying to make the pieces fit somehow. They didn’t.

“Anything ever really tie William Hare to the dolls or dead kids?”

The Actor smiled at me with a full set of teeth. “William Hare’s ‘Lost Children’ who haunt the hills of Edinburgh?” Then he shrugged and dialed down his grin a bit. “Nah. And they never did find any tiny graves. Just some ghost story.”

Hmm. “Ghost story,” I mumbled. Something tickled my brain.

All the violent death talk was freaking me out a bit, making it harder to breathe. Then I had another thought.

“We must be really far into this cave,” I said. “It’s musty.”

“Less air flow, maybe,” Uncle Jerry said, also breathing more heavily. “There’s nothing here, man. Let’s get outta this cave. Could be that your dish is up top.”

“Yeah, maybe we can ask our T-shirt man if there’s a place to get something to eat around the area.”

Uncle Jerry laughed. “I don’t want any of that guy’s recommendations. Burger would probably cost you a grand!”

“Right, and—”

“Son of a bitch!” the Actor’s voice called back. When I looked up, I could see the beam of his light strobing around in all directions, reflecting back gray stone.

That included when he shone it forward.

“Ah, well,” Uncle Jerry said. “Dead end.”

“Okay,” I said and turned, cutting my light through the dark. “Maybe we just go back to the last split and—”

I stopped.

My beam was now shining down the way we came. Instead of a long, winding tunnel, though, I saw only what the Actor had seen on his side.

Rock.

“Hey now,” Uncle Jerry said, his breath quickening. “That’s the way we just came, ain’t it?”

“Yeah.”

He stepped forward, walking about ten feet, shining his light directly on what appeared to be a new wall. Then he turned the beam left and right. Just tunnel leading to a wall.

“How did that happen?”

The Actor came up beside me, still grumbling about having to turn back. When he caught Uncle Jerry’s expression, he stopped.

“What?” he said.

The old pilot shone his light all around him, revealing nothing but stone. We were standing in the middle of an Edgar Allan Poe nightmare.

“Looks like,” he said slowly, calmly, “we are walled in.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I sat down on a cluster of rocks beside Uncle Jerry to think. After a minute, I had to move to my own set of rocks because, me, I couldn’t think so well with a boss-level contact high.

“Sorry,” he said, looking down at his boots as I scooted away. “Helps me concentrate.”

As he began rolling another between his fingers, the Actor turned on him, his hands wrapped into fists.

“What are you doing?” he shouted, which was far too loud for the combined space. “We’ve got limited air, and you’re filling it with smoke. You’re going to suffocate us!”

“Maybe,” Uncle Jerry said, smiling. “But I get it cloudy enough in here, and you won’t care no more.”

“Raz, do something!”

I sighed. “There ain’t a lot of options. In fact, pretty soon, one of us is going to want to, you know, relieve themselves, so we should probably come up with—”

“No, no!” the Actor said, raising both palms. “No number twos in the tour bus. Golden rule.”

Uncle Jerry tucked the fresh joint into his shirt pocket. “Calm down, amigo.” Then he muttered low so that only I could hear him. “Or just take a few deep breaths. It’s good smoke.”

For the third time, the Actor made a circuit around the walled-in space. Inch by inch, he’d move searching up and down the wall. I think he’d seen too many Indiana Jones movies. Or hell, maybe he’d been in one.

“Maybe there’s a lever or handle around here somewhere.”

If nothing else, while focused on finding some big red button that read Escape, he wasn’t tearing into the two of us.

Uncle Jerry leaned against the wall, put his feet up on a rock, and turned toward me.

“Got any bright ideas?”

I shook my head. “Nada, man.”

“You’ll think of something.”

“Me? How am I going to work it out?”

“Because you, my friend, are the king of impossible.” He smiled at me. “Or at least the crown prince. You’re too smart to let something like a hundred million tons of rock get in your way.”

“Or too dumb to know that it will.”

“Either way,” he said and shrugged. “Sometimes the outcome is the same.”

I nodded and reached into my cloak.

“Check your phone and see if you’ve got a signal.” We both did, and, of course, this deep in the rock, we got nothing.

“Ain’t nothing gonna get through this rock,” Uncle Jerry said, then a smile crept to his lips. “Except whatever gonzo sat dish the Old Man has set up, it seems.” He looked at me. “Hell tech, as you said.”

“Right, hell tech,” I said. Then something bubbled up into my brain like a fart in the tub. “Hold on.”

Uncle Jerry watched as I put the middle finger of my hand into my ear, cupping my hand under my mouth.

“Earache?”

I shook my head, listening to find if “hell tech” might actually be the answer.

“Hello, this is the Advocate. Please remember billable hours begin now.”

“We’re in a jam.”

“Oh, such a vomitous delight to have you darkening my inner ear, Rasputin. A diseased millipede burrowing into my brain,” the man said. “I was just wondering how this truly dreadful day could get worse, and here you are, at the tip of my finger. The Devil provides.”

“Shut up,” I said. Uncle Jerry’s eyes widened, and I covered the palm under my mouth with my other hand briefly. “Just making a quick call.”

“Good,” he said. “I was worried maybe I’d smoked a bit too much.” Then he laughed to himself. “No, no. That’s impossible.”

Back on the line again, I said, “We’re at the third site to realign your dish, but somehow, we’ve gotten walled in.”

“Walled in? Is that a metaphor? I do not have time for your simple-minded word puzzles.”

“No, we’re literally walled in, asshat. We’re in some tunnels, under a mountain in Fujian province in China.”

I heard an exasperated sigh. “Yes, yes. I know the place. A great deal of fun a long while back.”

“Whatever. You need to send one of your teams to crack us out of here.”

“No can do, my little festering carbuncle,” he said. “You are supposed to be on a clandestine mission. All of our teams are being monitored by the other side. Any move toward you would expose our ultimate plans.”

“Are you listening to me?” I shouted at the guy. “We can’t get out of here!”

“We are on the brink of war, Rasputin. We can’t just—”

“From what I understand,” I shouted into my palm, “without us, you’ll be flying blind during your little war! We don’t succeed and, what? You gonna send battle plans via fucking postcard?”

“It will not be a little war. Trust me,” he said. For the first time, his voice was soft and distant. I’d never heard that tone from the guy before, so I couldn’t entirely place it. Was he worried? “There has not been a battle for the Underworld like this for millions of years. And it’s crucial we are the victors for an even bigger challenge ahead.”

I sighed. Exhausted. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Not your concern. Just find a way out,” he said. His poisonous tone returned. “There’s far more at stake here than you know.”

I hated being in the dark. With that thought in mind, I looked over at our flashlights, which had slowly been dimming from yellow to orange.

“Turn off your flashlights,” I said to my friends. “I’ll leave mine on. No use in burning all three out at once.”

As they clicked their flashlights off, the walls pressed in closer.

“Rasputin, my bulbous, blue-vein-riddled tumor, I am very busy here.”

“You need to get us out!”

“My hands are tied,” he said, his voice quickening, and I could tell he was about to click off. “There’s nothing we can do.”

The Actor came into the light and sat down just off my knee. He looked up at me slowly.

“We’re too dumb,” he said.

I frowned at him. “Not helping, man.”

“No, listen. The three of us are good at, you know, going where angels fear to tread,” he said, his voice soft. “But sometimes, what you need is an angel.”

I squinted at him. What?

“Rasputin, I’ve got to go now,” the Advocate said. “Big to-do list, you know. Millions of boxes to tick, and—this won’t come as a surprise to you—all of them are many magnitudes more important than you.”

“Wait!” I said, finally realizing what the Actor was getting at. “If you can’t help us, maybe you can contact someone who can. Our phones are dead in here, so I need you to make the call.”

A heavy sigh heaved from the other end. “Who is it?”

“Uh, it’s a friend.”

“Yes, yes. Heard of those. Sounds like nasty business all round.”

“She’s an angel,” I said. “Or, rather, a part-time angel. Or a probationary angel. I don’t understand any of it.”

A huge belly laugh erupted in my ear.

“Oh, my gangrenous finger nub, I can’t—ha!—I mean, what a thought,” he said, laughing so hard he was struggling to catch his breath. “I can’t call an angel. First, no way to do that. And second, if there were, I’d be a fried husk before the other side could pick up. Angels and demons? It’s, ha ha, frowned upon to fraternize with the enemy.”

I nodded slowly. “Well, not everyone exactly plays by those rules.”

After another minute, he finally, stubbornly, agreed to do what I asked. I also told him to pass on the two names I had so far to the Old Man. When he started asking me what the names were about, I clicked off.

Our cave went deathly silent for the moment.

“Do you think he’ll make the call?” Uncle Jerry asked.

“He has to if the Old Man wants us to get out of here.”

The Actor said, “Do you think she’ll come?”

Too long had passed since I’d properly spoken with our friend. A few months, maybe even longer. And in the brief moment I did speak with her, back when the sisters were taking down Sally’s ranch house, I’d rushed her off the phone.

“Anza is one of us, man,” I said. “If there’s anyone who can figure out how to get out from underneath a mountain, it’s her.”

Uncle Jerry laughed. “True. True, true!”

The two of us watched as the Actor stood and shuffled over to the wall. He put his back to it and slowly slid to the stone floor. His eyes were blank, mouth hanging just slightly open. I would have bet Uncle Jerry a dollar we’d see a tiny line of spittle from his lip in the next five minutes if things weren’t so, you know, deathy.

“Why do you do this?” the Actor finally said, still staring out into the dark. “Raz, why do you get us into these horrible, horrible situations? It can’t ever be, ‘Hey, fellas, I got a cabana in Cancun, and all the tequila is about to expire. We need to drink it.’”

Uncle Jerry scrunched his eyebrows. “Don’t think tequila expires.”

“Not the point.”

“What is your point?” I said, my voice sharp.

“I mean… the first time, I get a table leg through my chest. Last time, I got peppered with bullets and nearly died,” he said then slowly looked up at me, like he’d worked out the punchline to an old joke. “You are hazardous to the health of those around you.”

We were trying to save a friend’s life, and I was about to shoot that nugget back at him. Then I remembered that he and Sally were not the best of friends. Probably because she’d originally been hired to kill him.

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore,” he said, his voice weak.

“No one asked you, man! All you’ve done is bitch and moan since the start like every other time.”

“Okay, boys,” Uncle Jerry said softly.

“Following you around is going to get me killed,” the Actor said, his voice like that of someone waking from a dream. “Going to get all of us killed.”

“Then stop following me around, man,” I shouted. “Why are you even here?”

The dwarf actor in the ridiculous pirate costume lifted his face toward me, but this time, I didn’t see anger. Or hate. Or even mild, ironic disdain.

Aw, fuck.

I wanted to apologize—I did, but, me, I was a stubborn prick. Just wanted to hold onto the bloodied knife above his head for a minute more.

Just as I was about to open my stupid mouth and apologize, he began talking. He spoke in a low, punished voice, and every word seemed to squeeze out from somewhere very deep inside of him.

“We lived in the High Desert when I was a kid, in high school,” he said, looking at his hands. “We moved a lot, sometimes even more than once a year. Never thought about it much at the time, what kid does? Just thought that, you know—” he sighed—“time for a new place. New city. New people who don’t know me.”

Uncle Jerry turned toward him and leaned forward.

“That had to be tough on a kid, amigo.”

“Got used to it, I guess,” he said, his voice distant. “Had to work out a way to, you know, just survive. It was like every time I got this close to feeling settled, I’d hear, ‘Hey, Pops has a new job! We’re moving.’ You get to a point where even when you’re settled in, you’re still moving.”

Uncle Jerry got up and sat down a few feet away from the Actor, crossing his legs. Then he grunted, uncrossed his legs, and just leaned back on his hands.

“I sit like that, and I ain’t never getting up again.”

The Actor gave him a tiny smile, which faded quickly.

“Hard to make any friends like that,” the Actor said. “Went to high school in the Inland Empire, they called it. About two hours outside of Los Angeles, and it was dirt and dry and the farthest thing from an empire you can imagine.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “Lot of rich kids in school, they hated me. I tried to convince myself that was because we didn’t have money like they did. But…” he said and sighed, “I didn’t worry about it because any second, I was sure to hear, ‘Hey, Pops has a new job.’

“This time, though, that didn’t come. Guess he’d worked it out, because we stayed there all through high school. One bonus, though: My sophomore yearbook was pristine. Not dirtied up by any notes or signatures from any classmates. Didn’t bother me anymore. Just got used to it.”

Uncle Jerry sniffed and rubbed his eyes then flashed one of his signature smiles. Warm. Inviting. Safe.

He said softly, “See, you keep pulling up a plant and puttin’ it back in the dirt, over and over, and eventually, the roots don’t go out anymore. Only way for it to not shrivel up and die is for the roots to go the other way. Inside.”

The Actor slowly turned his head toward him. Then he stared off again and nodded slowly.

The quiet returned.

If I were a good person, that would have been my cue to get that apology stuck behind me teeth out. Instead, once again, the small man filled the silence.

“I was working at a Best Buy in San Bernardino,” he said. “Not customer service, of course. I was behind a till, which was fine. Five bucks an hour, which I’d spend on movies on the weekend. Job was okay, but I hated having to carry my box out to the register, the one I needed to stand on to reach the till. Felt like everyone was watching me cross the floor. Tiny man with a big box under his arm, eyes all watching each step I took.”

“We all got a cross to bear,” Uncle Jerry offered. “And I suppose for some, it’s a box.”

Our old friend smiled, reached up, and patted the Actor’s knee. The Actor gave him a small grin in return.

“So working a sale and some guy up from the city, I’m ringing up this unbelievable stack of electronics. Thousands of dollars, and the guy’s not even blinking at the total. And he says he’s making a film in town, some made-for-TV thing, and he needs someone like me.”

Uncle Jerry nodded. “Oh, a talent scout!”

“It was a small role, pun intended, but that led to more, then more,” the Actor said, sucking in a deep breath and slowly closing his eyes. “At first, the kids in school gave me all kinds of grief. You know, I’m an elf in some Christmas thing. One of Snow White’s crew for a Diet Coke commercial.”

I finally spoke up. “Can I guess which dwarf you were? I wanna guess. I think I can guess.”

“Sleepy, actually. Not like we had lines or anything,” the Actor said, flicking his eyes toward me. Fortunately, his gesture had a lightness to it. “Eventually at school, I was the man. Everyone wanted to be my friend because of the sort of stars I began hanging out with. They wanted to be my friend because of who I knew, not who I was.”

My eyes watered a little, and I just listened.

“But you guys don’t care about any of that stuff,” he said then straightened out. “Which is a bit nuts because I am a huge deal!”

We all laughed at that.

“Yeah, brother,” I said, my voice a bit shaky. “None of us hold any of that Hollywood shit against you.”

He grinned at me, nodding.

“We like you for you, man,” I said. “And I’m sorry for what I said. You are my best friend. You both are.”

The Actor nodded. “Thank you,” he said then gave a wry smile. “But who do you like better? I mean, the old man here smells like Willie Nelson’s bus driver, for chrissake.”

“Guilty as charged,” Uncle Jerry said, throwing his hands up. And when he did that, of course, he fell back into the dirt, and we all laughed.

“Blah, blah, blah. So touching. What a load of crap!”

We stopped laughing.

I looked at the Actor.

The Actor looked at Uncle Jerry.

Uncle Jerry looked at me.

The strange voice spoke again. “You are going to die. All of you. And no one will care!”

We all looked around, searching for the speaker. The voice was strange and tiny, and… I couldn’t even tell where it was coming from.

“But before you do, I just wanted to assure you that you have wholly failed in whatever little job you’re on,” it said.

“Where is that coming from?” the Actor said, his eyes wide.

“Ha ha ha ha ha!” Uncle Jerry said. No, not Uncle Jerry.

He looked down at his pocket, reached into it, and pulled out a small object.

The tiny plastic monk he got from the T-shirt stand pointed a tiny finger at him. The doll laughed again.

“You will die down here!” it said, lifting its tiny monochromatic arms in the air. “And it will have all been for nothing!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Dan watched his wife as she poked at the phone mounted on the car’s dashboard, looking for a way around the holiday traffic heading back into Atlanta. She continued to tap, focused on the device, but then saw her husband’s fingers link through hers and take her hand.

“I don’t think I like this camping very much,” she said with a small smile.

“Usually it’s much more restful. With fewer demons and angels.”

“Half angel.”

“Right.”

They rode in silence for a moment, just holding hands.

“I don’t want you to quitting your job,” Anza said. “I know how much it makes you happy.”

“Sure, but not if it means, you know… I don’t want to be apart from you, Anza.”

She nodded.

“We will find a way,” she said. “Both of us are smart people. If anyone can… what are you doing?”

Dan’s hand buzzed. Anza flinched, trying to work out how Dan did that. When it buzzed again, she pulled her fingers back and held them to her chest.

“Is very weird,” she said. “How are you making your hand do this?”

“I’m not… I think it’s my finger.”

“What does that mean?”

“My finger is vibrating.”

Anza coughed. “Can you make it do that all the time?”

“What?” he said, laughed, and lifted his middle finger, which blurred slightly as it vibrated.

They both jumped as a horn in front of them blared. When they looked up, the woman in the Audi directly ahead was flipping them off, over her shoulder.

He dropped his hand below the dash. When his hand vibrated again, he touched his thumb to the middle finger. The buzzing stopped.

“What are you—?”

“Shh!”

Dan squinted, unsure if he was actually hearing what he thought he heard. When Anza finally noticed the tiny voice emanating from his fingertip, she shrank toward the passenger-side door, her hand on the release latch.

Eyes wide, her voice was strained: “How is your finger now possessed?”

Her husband lifted the finger closer to his head but still couldn’t make out the words. So he put his finger in his ear.

Anza said, “What on Earth are you doing by putting your possessed finger inside your ear canal?”

Dan listened for a moment then slowly turned toward his wife, holding his palm out, middle finger slightly raised.

“Uh,” he said. “It’s for you.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

My day-to-day routine used to be pretty normal.

That was before the Devil was in my life.

Even as a moderately well-known disk jockey in Atlanta, a huge market to be sure, things were pretty, well, normal. Go to work, do my four-hour shift, maybe a gig later that night at a bar for some extra cash.

That, of course, all changed when the love of my life got sick. Cassie was too young to die like that. After the doctors ran out of ideas, I called an audible, so to speak. Tried to save her by making a deal with the Old Man.

The transaction didn’t work out how I planned, but Cassie felt that, in some way, I had saved her.

But I still lost her.

You haven’t lost me, baby. I’m right here.

No, you’re not. You’re just… a figment of my imagination.

Ha, that’s a new one. I prefer it when you call me “baby doll” or “sweetheart,” though. Rolls off the tongue better.

At least you’re a somewhat funny figment of my imagination.

Somewhat?

Shh. You’re interrupting my internal monologue.

Sorry.

As I’ve said, my goal in life was to reunite with my Cassie in death. And to do that, I had to “do good.”

But I was certain no part of doing “good” involved chasing a six-inch plasticine monk around a cave, buried under half a mile of rock in the Chinese hinterlands with an elderly stoned pilot and an out-of-work dwarf actor.

“Come ’ere, ya bastard.”

“Stomp on it, stomp on it!”

But life did throw its curve balls.

“Ha ha ha ha ha!” the tiny figurine shouted as it whipped all along the edges of the stone walls, whizzing between Uncle Jerry’s legs and zig-zagging around the Actor’s stomping feet. I stood slack-jawed in the middle of the room, in quiet contemplation, wondering how my life had come to this.

For a moment, I just watched as my friends tried and failed to catch the cackling little whatever-it-was. We were all tired, hungry, thirsty, and exhausted, but while this living doll could have been some sort of hallucination, I was pretty sure we would not all have the same hallucination.

“Fucker!” the Actor shouted as the tiny monk ran over his foot and did a tiny sideways kick at his ankle. The Actor swung at it with a stick and missed wildly.

As they raced around me, I slowly pulled off the cloak I’d picked up at the Scottish demigod’s pub. I then watched my friends, who looked like two dim-witted cats chasing a demon-possessed mouse.

“Block him in!”

“I’m trying! He’s too wily!”

“Use your feet!”

“I’m using everything!”

The mini monk ran up Uncle Jerry’s leg and jumped off his shoulder, delivering a tiny punch to his ear as he jumped off.

“Bastard!”

When the figurine made a beeline for the Actor, a tiny pink grin plastered on his plasticine face, I flung out my cloak. The garment drifted down, trapping the strange creature beneath it.

“Nice one, Razzie!” Uncle Jerry cheered.

I gathered up the cloak so that I had the little asshole in a makeshift sack. The entire time, I could see little peaks where he was punching and kicking, trying to get out.

Enough of this.

Holding the length of the cloak, I lifted it over my head and began smashing it, repeatedly, down onto one of the rocks at my feet.

“We… are… tired… of… playing… around!” I said, smashing it into the stone on each word.

The doll inside the cloak stopped moving.

My two friends stared at me then looked at the clump of clothing now lying on the ground.

“I think ya killed it,” Uncle Jerry said.

I frowned at him, got down on one knee, and reached inside the cluster of material, where I rooted around to get a hold of it. A moment later, I pulled out the plasticine monk.

Far from dead, it began poking with its teeny-tiny fighting stick. I squeezed the doll in my fist and flicked its head with a finger.

“Hey!” it shouted at me, trying to look tough.

“Which one are you?” I asked it.

It stopped and gave me a blank look. “What does that mean?”

I thought about the Powerpuff Girls and Scrappy and SpongeBob. Given the circumstances, I expected this to be someone high up on the Hell inc. food chain. Who were the top brass? Bugs, Daffy, Goofy?

“Are you Janus?” I said, bringing it a bit closer to my face, showing it my teeth. “CEO of Hell inc.?”

The little monk was still poking at my fingers, grunting as it did, so again, I flicked it with a finger. Its little head wobbled slightly, then it glared at me.

“That doesn’t hurt, so you know!” it said. “Just shakes the video feed a little. I’m a toy monk! You can’t hurt me!”

Video feed. So whoever this was, they were remote from somewhere. And they were very douchey. That was all I needed to know.

“Hood,” I said, spitting the word. “What are you playing at?”

“I can play all day,” it said, again lifting its tiny arms in celebration. “But you losers don’t have all day. You’re going to expire in that cave! Ha ha ha ha—”

I took a few quick steps then dragged the tiny plastic monk’s face along the wall, leaving a faint pink line as I did.

“Whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa!”

Uncle Jerry shone the flashlight toward me then down at the figure. I’d sheared off about a third of its tiny head.

“You can’t hurt me, Rasputin Frewer! I’m just here to watch you all die!”

“I don’t think so,” I said, squeezing it. “What is it you want? You’ve got us trapped, so why bother with all of this?”

“Shit!” the Actor said. “I mean, we should have known. A T-shirt stand outside a tunnel system in the Chinese outback?”

Uncle Jerry scratched his beard. “I don’t think they call it an outback.”

“You are all so supremely stupid!” the tiny monk said but then brushed its tiny hands down the front of its robes. “But, yes, I will let you free. I will let you live.”

“If?”

“It’s a small thing,” it said. “And if anyone in this dank cave knows about small things, it would be a tiny plastic monk! Ha ha ha—”

Yes, I smashed it against the rock again. Smashing the doll had become my favorite thing in the world to do.

“Okay, okay, stop it!”

I said, “What’s the ‘if’?”

“All I need to know is what your little short-bus school trip is all about,” it said. “What is the Old Man planning?”

The Actor spoke up before I could say anything. “We’re location scouting. Hell’s getting into the film business, so we’re doing some forwarding work.”

The tiny creature pointed a tiny finger at the Actor. “Don’t bullshit me! They’re already in the movie business. Who do you think made all those Adam Sandler movies?”

“Fair enough,” the Actor said, shrugging.

It turned back to me. “Just tell me what he’s up to, and you will go free. You can go back to your families and all of that bullshit.”

“My family is dead, you prick,” I screamed at it. Then I turned to the Actor. “You still got that stick?” He held it up. “Good.”

All told, the process took about three minutes. After I’d jammed the stick into the ground, the Actor gave up his eye patch begrudgingly, and I used its string to finish the job. When I was done, the tiny plastic monk was securely tied to a tiny wooden stake.

“This solves nothing,” it shouted. “Just give up what you know, and you will be freed!”

Uncle Jerry crouched down. “I don’t know much, but I do reckon that double-crossing the Devil will get you a lot more hell than just dying here with a few friends.”

“What?” the Actor said. “I don’t want to die.”

“We’re not going to die,” I said.

“Yes, you are!” the monk shouted as I began to ignite the bits of map I’d torn up and laid around its feet. The flames rose higher. “Just tell me what he’s doing, and—dammit, it’s all going blurry, you moron!”

“That’s because,” Uncle Jerry said, chuckling, “you’re on fire, ya little bastard!”

The doll swiveled its tiny head toward me. “This is your last chance, Rasputin Frewer! I am your last chance to—”

I flicked it in the head again. One last shot for fun.

“Listen here,” I said and leaned in closer. “We’re coming for you, Hood.”

“Fuck you,” he said, the words bubbling on its tiny lips.

“Once we’re done with this job, we are coming for you. And you will have nowhere to hide,” I said. “This here is just a practice run. We’ll try this for real, real soon.”

For a moment, the figurine struggled against its restraints. Then it began shouting.

“I’m melting! I’m melllting!”

“Okay, wow.” The Actor took a step back. “That’ll be in my nightmares.”

Then it broke into a brief series of cackles, laughing hysterically. Moments later, all that remained was a dirty plastic puddle.

I stomped out what was left of the fire and sighed.

“Might as well save some of the paper if we need it for light once the batteries die.”

My friends sat down around me. Again, we were all quiet for a moment.

“Won’t that, you know,” the Actor said, “burn up what air we’ve got left?”

All I could do was shrug. So tired now.

“Maybe, um,” Uncle Jerry said. “If this is the end, maybe we, you know, confess our sins or something.”

The two of us turned to him.

He gave us a weak smile. “It’ll take our minds off it all.”

The Actor crossed his legs and looked at the ceiling. “I’ll be honest. We don’t have enough time to get through my list.”

We laughed.

Sure, we were all dying, but, like Uncle Jerry said, I suppose if you had to go, going with friends around you wasn’t a bad way to do it.

The Actor turned his head slightly. “You got something you want to get off your chest, old-timer?”

Uncle Jerry got strangely quiet, and his eyes darted around the room. Then, they landed on me.

“Maybe.”

“What?” I said, laughing nervously. “You want me to go first?”

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s just… wait.”

The Actor laughed again. “Wait? Man, all we got left is wait!”

Our friend held up his hand and shushed us. He said, “Listen.”

We were quiet for a few seconds, and all I heard was our raspy breathing.

Then I did hear it.

A thumping sound. No, no. Not thumping.

“What is that?” the Actor said. “Is that an earthquake?”

The pounding got louder. And louder. The ground began to shake.

Uncle Jerry hopped to his feet. “I don’t know,” he said, looking up as bits of dust and tiny rock began to trickle down onto us. “Christ, this whole place is going to come down!”

The Actor turned to me with a strange look on his face. Probably because I was laughing.

“Why are you…?” Eyes like saucers, he looked up at the low ceiling.

I stood, grabbed my cloak, and slipped it back on.

“Raz, what the hell is that?” the Actor said.

Turning toward the wall the noise was coming from, I slipped my hands into my pockets.

I said, “It’s Anza.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The suffocating tunnel should have been as dark as a moonless night, but there was light.

“Aghnn!”

After smashing the stone with her shoulder, Anza fell to a knee. She was already tired, but she could never stop, not ever.

Her friends were trapped on the other side.

She took a few steps back again, lowered herself, and then launched with everything she had. Pain shot lightning bolts through her body as chunks of stone fell away and crumbled to the dirt floor.

But there was light.

She took a moment, a brief one, to catch her breath. Her friends must be running out of air. But she needed a few seconds to rest but not to think. That hurt more than thrusting her body at the stone wall.

“You can’t,” Dan had said. “After all you’ve done to earn this gift! You want to throw that away?”

“Rasputin, no? This is your friend before me! And you want to have him to die under a mountain? Alone!”

“He’s not alone, Anza.”

“No, he is also there with Uncle Jerry!” she said, tears welling in her eyes, her lips trembling. “And even the Actor! These are people I love, and you would have me leave them? Who are you? This is not my husband!”

After the strange call, they’d pulled to the side of the interstate. Big rigs whipping by, shaking the earth. Dan took a step forward to comfort her, but she matched his pace and stepped back.

“Baby, they made their choice. And you know Raz. After this jam, shit, he’ll be in another in a week. A day!”

Her body aching, standing in front of the cold rock wall, she tried to shake the conversation from her mind. Pain. Pain would help do that.

Anza leapt toward the stone again, feeling every broken shard, the smallest mote of dust as she smashed it with her body.

“Aghnn!”

She collapsed to her knees, struggling to get back up. Her vision consisted of pinpricking blacks and blues and purples.

But there was light.

“Owww,” she moaned. Pleading with the Upstairs bosses was useless. They would not understand. Like a machine, she trudged the three or four steps back from the wall and readied herself for another blast.

“Anza, I am only worried about you,” Dan had said. “Yes, they’re important to me, but you are more. Más importante!”

“If I am supposed to be some angel-in-training, how is this helping of my friends supposed to be bad?”

Dan frowned and shook his head. “Come on, they’re working for the Old Man! You would be helping their sworn enemy!”

“Your side!”

“No! No, no,” Dan said, waving his hands in the air. He didn’t want to go down this road again. “I just work for one of their companies. I’m a disk jockey, not any sort of demon.”

“You looked like one to me yesterday,” she said, her words cutting like daggers. “And today, you are being okay with people in your heart, in my heart, to die? Now, you look more like one than ever.”

Dan stared off as he crunched through dirty gravel and sat on a massive boulder. Bored kids from the city had come out and marred it with graffiti. In white paint, the words Satin Lives! decorated the stone.

“If you do this, you’re… you’re out, you know?” he said. “The Upstairs will banish you, and there’s no going back. Anza, you will be, I don’t know, a fallen angel.”

She balled her fists up, her vision blurry with rage.

“No, I will just be a woman who would do anything to protect her friends.”

Before he could protest, she’d unfolded her wings, not caring if anyone driving by saw, then leaped into the air and rocketed toward the location given to her by someone named “the Advocate.”

Southeastern China.

Where her friends were trapped.

Where her friends were dying.

“No,” she said, shaky on her feet as she readied one final hit. “No dying today.”

The light from her burning wings grew brighter and brighter until they shone like a thousand suns.

Anza screamed in agony, pouring everything she had left into her fists, focusing on a singular point in the middle of the rock face. Gathering all of her strength, all of her love, she charged.

Crraackk—whooomppp!

The wall crumbled like dry, brittle bones, and she rolled onto her back, breathing heavily, sucking in smoke, and choking on the air. When she opened her eyes, she could see a massive chunk of rock loosen above her. With her wings burned away, she was all human now. The rock would crush her.

She screamed and lifted her arms to her face but then felt something grip her shoulder and yank her through the gap.

“No ya don’t!”

As the stone fell, Anza skittered across the dirt floor. Then she opened her eyes again, and in very dim light, she saw a beautiful face.

“Hey there, darlin’!”

At least, beautiful to her.

“Oh,” she said, tears filling her eyes. “Uncle Jerry!” Her body folded into a coughing fit, and she breathed through her nose to steady her breath. Up on one knee, she looked at her friend.

She said, “So, how are you?”

* * *

We all just laughed. Out of joy. Out of relief. Out of just seeing our friend back with us again.

And, you know, out of avoiding imminent death.

That was a pretty big deal too.

“We’re doing much better than you, I reckon,” Uncle Jerry said, helping her to her feet. She staggered for a moment, and I threw my arms around her.

“Yow!” I said, pulling them back. I looked at the sleeves of my cloak. Both were singed. Gently, I clasped her shoulder and looked at her back. My heart ached. What had she given up for us? For me?

What have I done?

“Oh, Anza. Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I said, my eyes closed. I couldn’t look at her.

“Is fine, Raz,” she said, her voice a bit weak. “And please, I still do not like talking like this. The cursing.”

“Even after all of this?”

“It does not change who I am,” she said and shrugged, which flipped twisting tendrils of smoke into the air. She winced in pain. “It will take a while to get used to.”

“Jiminy Cricket,” Uncle Jerry said, falling into his Anza-approved swearing. She didn’t mind the casual shit-fuck-damn stuff. Just no Jesus Christs and Goddamns and such. Toning down my language would make my vocab a bit less colorful, but she was worth it.

Of course.

The Actor shuffled up next to us.

“Hi, Anza.”

She bent down and wrapped him in a big bear hug. “I even missed you, little man.”

Anza was the only person in the world he would let call him that. And seeing his smile, I kind of think he liked it when she did.

“Your… your wings,” the Actor said. “They’re gone?”

She nodded, fighting to keep a smile on her face.

“Is okay. Not always do they come out but when they do, ay carone, they have ruined many of my very favorite blouses! Now? Glass-half-full thinking, at least I can wear sleeves again.”

The Actor grinned at her, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Okay,” Uncle Jerry said, clasping his hands and rubbing them together. “How about we get the hell out of—”

A horrific rumble filled the room, and, once again, we were all on high alert.

“Oh, shit,” I said, staring at the pebbles of rain falling from the ceiling. “I think your jailbreak may bring the whole mountain down on us.”

Uncle Jerry laughed. “She is a powerful lady.”

“How can you be laughing right now?” the Actor shouted, looking for somewhere to run.

“My friend,” he said, putting his hands on his hips, “I laugh in the face of death! Ha ha!”

“Not me,” our thespian said, crouching low. “I’d rather poke it in the eye and run.”

A ribbon of yellow light appeared near the ground, next to one of the walls—the very one that had blocked us off in the first place. The four of us watched as the stone rose, higher and higher.

“Fuck, let’s get out of here!” the Actor said and started the other direction.

That made the most sense, but with the map all charred up from our immolation of the tiny monk, we’d get lost.

Weary, exhausted, the rest of us just stood and watched the lifting wall. The Actor stepped back into line with us.

“It’s okay,” I said, rolling my hands into tight balls. “Whatever comes through that big creepy door, we’ll face it together.”

“You got it,” Uncle Jerry said.

Anza nodded and raised a smoking fist.

“Don’t mean we all have to die,” the Actor said. “You guys go first.”

“Helpful.” I looked at him. “Nice pep talk.”

Three figures bent low, just shadow people in the back light, slipped under the widening gap, and walked toward us.

“Zhèlǐ de zàoyīn shì zěnme huí shì?” said the first person across the threshold.

Uncle Jerry lifted our last, dying flashlight and shone it at the speaker, but the darkness swallowed the weak beam. The two other shadow figures stood with the first.

“Uh, we’re just passing through on the tour,” he said, smiling wide. “You know where there’s a bathroom around here? My back teeth are floatin’.”

The three shadows talked amongst themselves. As they turned to one another, we saw they were armed. Rifles.

“Right,” I said. “We got lost a little ways back. I mean, it just winds around and—”

“Why are you here?” the apparent leader said, gripping his weapon a little tighter. “This is a restricted area. Triad business only.”

Triad? Oh. Shit.

“No problem, méi wèntí,” Uncle Jerry said, lifting his hands and smiling wider. “We’ll go back the way we came. Didn’t mean to—”

“Or maybe we want to go the way where you are standing?” Anza said, her hands on her hips now. Two beams of flashlight trained on her, and she was a hell of a sight. Blackened shoulders, back still smoldering. “This is a tour, yes? So maybe we want to go tour over there?”

The leader lifted his rifle, putting Anza in his crosshairs.

I stepped forward. “We’ll all get along much better if you didn’t aim your pointy boom stick at my friends.”

He trained the rifle on me, which was what I wanted. If bullets were going to fly, I could take the hit.

“Whoa, whoa, fellas,” our old friend said, his smile a bit dimmer than before. “Let’s all just calm down. Maybe we can all take, you know, a quick Instagram photo together, shake hands, and we’ll head off.”

Anza frowned at him. “Instagram is for food, as I have said.” Everyone looked at her. She shrugged. “Totally true. And tiny dogs. And very busty women in tight clothes who are selling things. Sometimes they sell food and tiny dogs.”

The leader’s eyes glinted in the low light, and he turned toward me. “What is she talking about?”

“Dog food, I think. I got lost.”

An armed woman, just a silhouette in the back light, motioned her rifle toward our other friend.

“Why would you bring a child to such a place?”

“Da fuck?” the Actor said, stepping into the light. “Who are you calling a ch—?”

“Niúbì!” the third gunman said. “It’s… it’s, you know!”

The woman frowned at him. “What?”

“It’s that guy! He’s that guy from TV and movies,” the third man said, nearly hopping from foot to foot. “Oh my god, we’ve got that guy from the show. Wow!”

The Actor bristled, saying each word like he was chewing it. “I… am… not… a that guy,” he said.

“Yes! Yes you are,” the third said to his friends. “You know! From the show with the swords and the dragons.”

“A ‘that guy’”—the Actor took another step forward, his hands actually trembling—“is some actor no one cares to learn the name of. My name is—”

“I know who you are,” the leader said quietly, his tone serious.

“I’ll be damned,” the woman said, taking a half step forward. “It is! The Dwarf King who killed his entire family. You’re the greatest. Truly.”

“It… well,” the Actor said then softened. “Thank you.”

“Hey, I have a question,” the third man said as he slung his weapon behind his back. “Did you ever—?”

“No.” The Actor sighed, but I could see a tiny smile on his pretty, rugged face. “I never slept with the Ice Queen. I mean, come on,” he said, a bit of swagger in his voice now. “The frostbite woulda made it fall off!”

The two backups laughed, but I was watching the lead man. As my eyes adjusted to the light, he looked to me no more than thirty. He stared at the Actor intensely, and I couldn’t tell whether it was anger or…

“You were in the train movie,” he finally said.

Oh no.

“Uh,” the Actor said, a scowl tearing his face in two. “The fuckin’ tra—”

“That one,” the man said, “was important to me.”

The Actor’s mouth hung open for a moment. Anza reached over and, with a thumb, pushed his jaw up to close it with a clack, which made everyone chuckle.

Except for their leader. He stepped forward, just a few feet away from our friend.

I started to advance, but a hand gripped my shoulder and held me back. When I turned, Uncle Jerry shook his head once.

“My father died when I was a boy,” the triad man said then shifted his eyes around to his underlings. He seemed to consider something for a moment and then offered a painful smile. “He never really liked me. I was in love with everything out of the West. Movies, music. He saw it as poison, so we didn’t talk much.”

Anza put her still-smoldering hands to her chest. “Oh, oh. That is hurting my heart so.”

“But he did love your train movie,” the man said. “When he… in the end, when he was in bed, he watched it endlessly. Dozens of times.”

The Actor stared at him blankly. “I’m glad he liked it.”

The triad man stared at the wall as he spoke.

“My father didn’t know any English but would watch the tape over and over.” He rubbed his nose then looked at my friend. “A few days before he died, he asked me to translate it for him. This from a man who’d forbidden me from speaking your language in his house. But I guess he wanted to know the real story before he died.”

I said, “To see if it matched the one in his head.”

The lead man shot a look at me, frowning. But then he slowly nodded and continued.

“Maybe,” he said. “So I sat with him, translating it line by line. Beginning to end. When I got up to leave, he put his hand on my arm. He wanted me to do it again.” The man cleared his throat. “It was the only time in my life I ever saw my father cry. He was touched. Touched by you.”

The Actor tried to speak but failed. He looked up and nodded with a sad smile.

The man went on, “For two days, we sat together, and I told him the words. Just my father and me watching a movie, me translating. For two days.”

“What a gift, man.” Uncle Jerry wiped his eyes, nodding. “That’s amazing.”

“It was the most we’d ever said to each other in years,” he took a step toward the Actor. “I got to spend two whole days with my father because of that movie. Your movie.” He looked down at my friend, and the former malice there now melted away. “Best two days of my entire life.”

He stuck out a hand. The Actor looked at it, cleared his own throat, and shook it.

The lead man then slid his weapon so it was hanging off his back.

“Okay, story time over,” he said, drawing in a deep breath. “So, why the hell are you people here?”

“Sightseeing,” Uncle Jerry piped up.

Without even turning, the lead guy pointed at my friend and through gritted teeth said, “If he says that again, shoot him.”

“Why’s everyone wanting to shoot me?” Uncle Jerry said. “Gonna get a complex.”

Anza stepped forward, her fists tight. “You just try it!”

“Uh, no,” Uncle Jerry said and threw a confused glance at her. “Don’t, you know, try it. Let’s not try that.”

“Hold on!” I said as loudly as I could without sounding threatening. Back in my radio days, I’d been trained to sound bright and light by practicing smiling. It was kinda weird, but you could actually hear it when someone smiled as they spoke.

However, as became clear to everyone in that room, if you smiled as you shouted?

You sounded and looked totally, completely, and utterly level-10, needle-buried-in-red, Sunshine-of-the-Spotless-Mind batshit fucking insane.

Every head in the entire group swiveled toward me, all at the same time. It was creepy, actually.

“So this would be a point, in all the middle of this hootin’ and hollerin’, someone might think to say ‘calm down,’ but that is a terrible idea,” I said, glancing at my friends for support. They looked back with blank expressions. Nice. “Because, and I’ll stand by this, and I’ve said it before: The worst two words you can say to anyone who’s mad, angry, sad, happy, aggressively contemplative, passively raging, whatever… are ‘calm down.’ It’s the truth.”

Six people. Blank faces, staring at me.

It was like I had jumped up on the picnic table at our social brunch and teabagged the pumpkin hummus.

A smart person would have dropped the subject. Pretend maybe like the moment never happened.

I was not a smart person.

“In fact, ha ha, in the history of the human race, that phrase has never calmed anyone down. Nobody, not one time,” I said and crossed my arms for no reason. “I’d bet my hat.”

The woman at the back tilted her head sideways at me.

“You’re not wearing a hat.”

“But that guy is!” the third man shouted. He’d been staring at the hat a lot, so this was his in. Finally.

“Stop calling me that!” the Actor said.

The woman now tilted her head at my friend. “Why are you wearing that pirate’s hat?”

“Are you joking?” their leader said. “Frank & Ernest is the number-one movie in the world. Haven’t you seen the trailer by now?” He smiled, shaking his head, taking in the Actor. “I just realized now that you are wearing the exact costume. In a dank stone tunnel in rural China!”

“Wait… Number one?” The Actor’s eyes went wide. “In the world?”

Uncle Jerry looked over and held up his palm to him and, yes, the rifle-toting triad leader. And, yes, they all high-fived.

Over box-office receipts.

“And, well, as you can know, this is why we are here in the China, for crying out loud!” Anza said, and I shot her a look, pushing my hand downward. She was still using her shit-kicker voice. Wrong vibe. She nodded and lowered the wattage.

“We are on an early promo tour of the China—”

The third man, the guy who was really into the Actor’s hat, raised his hand like he was in third grade. When Anza pointed at him, he said, “You’re under a mountain. You need to fire your marketing department.”

Anza laughed, a little too loudly. “Of course we are under a mountain! Why would we not be under a mountain with our friend dressed as p-p-pedo-pedophi—”

“Pirate!” the Actor, Uncle Jerry, and I all corrected her simultaneously.

“Yes, pirate. I am meaning pirate, of course,” she said, motioning to the Actor. “He is on the job, meeting the people and shaking the hands.”

“Please stop,” the Actor said weakly.

She didn’t. “We are here in this tunnel so he can do his hand job!”

“Wha?” the woman said and took a half step back.

The third man cleared his throat.

“Right, right,” Uncle Jerry said, clasping his hands together. “It’s a bit top secret, but we are here because of the film. Frank & Ernest ain’t in this market—not yet.”

“Okay,” their leader said, and I smiled at my friend. He’d bought me a few seconds so I could work out a play.

“Before the movie can open here, in China…” I spoke slowly, trying to get all the spinning ideas in my brain to align. “We… uh, can’t send stuff over the Internet these days because, digital nets and all, it’ll get scooped up. So,” I said, now on a roll, “we can only transfer copies of the film via a sort of old-style network. Satellite dishes, big ones.”

That hit a nerve. They all exchanged a look, and when the third man started to speak, the leader made a hush motion at him.

“And we can’t get it here because our sat link, it seems, is down,” I said, and cleared my throat. “Misaligned.”

The man in front took a half step back, his face betraying no emotion, but his eyes jumped around our group.

“Okay,” he said.

“So, we are here to, well, realign it. As it were,” I said, my voice trembling slightly, “do you happen to know where our dish is? It must be somewhere in or on this mountain.”

The triad boss and his group confabbed for nearly a minute, and twice the woman pointed at the Actor. All of them were scowling except the third man.

Finally, the leader turned back, took a deep breath, and slowly blew it out.

“You do not have a satellite dish here,” he said.

“Oh. Well, the coordinates they gave us point to—”

He put his hand up. “Because it is now our dish,” he said. “We are using it.”

Uncle Jerry said, “For what?”

The lead man looked back at his crew then at me again.

“Under this mountain, we need it for the internet and communication,” he said.

“And Disney+,” the third man said. That remark earned him a baleful look from his boss, who then stepped closer to me, lowering his voice. “We have been trying to show our merit to the triad leadership so we can be a part of their network.”

“Jesus, man,” I whispered and turned my head slightly. “You want to be part of a gang network?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. They’ve got money and resources. Out here, we have nothing.”

I didn’t have the time for some heady sociopolitical debate.

“Okay, Okay,” I said. “There must be a way to fix this.”

“There is,” Uncle Jerry said.

I turned and saw him standing about an inch away from my shoulder. “Shit, man, how’d you sneak up on me?” I said, then shook my head. “I’m trying to get the sat dish back!”

“We need that dish!” the woman said, swinging the rifle right back around to her front.

Anza stepped forward, her hands clenched into bloodless fists, and shouted, “And we are needing to save the life of an eighteenth-century gunslinger who has a hell bullet inside her belly!”

“Nineteenth,” the Actor muttered.

The man in front of me glared. “What are they talking about?”

Turning to my friends, I said, “Hey, hey, guys, I’m working this out here. Just—”

Now the lead man gripped his own rifle. Oh, shit.

“What is this all about?” he said, his voice sharp as broken glass. Then he pointed the weapon at me, and I lifted my hands.

“Hey, hey,” I said. “Thought we were getting along here.”

“You’ve got ten seconds to turn around and get out of here,” he said, “or we’ll add a bit of color to this cave.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Red color!”

“Yeah, I totally got the threat, dude,” I said. “Don’t oversell it.”

Anza began shouting in Spanish at the guy, and the other woman stepped forward, berating her in Chinese. The Actor and the third man were getting louder and louder, trading venomous insults.

Uncle Jerry stepped into the center of all that yelling. He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled so loudly it actually hurt my ears.

When everyone quieted, he said, “We can share the signal.”

The lead man turned to him, the weapon still pointed at me. “You can’t share a satellite feed.”

“Sure,” Uncle Jerry said, his car-salesman smile back. “We can split the bandwidth into an MCPC signal. That way, we’ve got frequency-division multiple access feeds, and as long as the protocols are properly calibrated within the transmission, uh…”

I looked at the face of the group’s leader then at Uncle Jerry. I rolled my hand at him to tell him to keep going.

“Then we’d have two independent streams of data, walled off so the signals could relay independently,” he said. He looked around the entire group and shrugged. “Easy.”

I saw my chance and turned to the man next to me.

With the warmest smile I could muster, I said, “Let’s do that!”

* * *

It had taken a while to convince the Downstairs IT guys that this would have to be the way of it. No other option. After a few minutes of arguing with my palm, my finger in my ear—and smiling off the confused expressions from the wannabe triads—I’d finally convinced the Advocate to get his people to calibrate the signal in a way that it could be split.

In the end, Uncle Jerry had it just about right. As we waited, I had to ask.

“How the hell did you know all that about splitting signals and everything?”

“Picked it up here and there,” Uncle Jerry said. “Something similar in jets like the one we borrowed from Induna.”

I thought for a moment, then said, “Miley Cyrus’s silver thong?”

“Among other things,” he said and gave me a wide smile.

When it finally got worked out, I sat at an old CRT screen that was tucked into a stone alcove about thirty feet from the triad junior hideout and punched in the line commands the tech guys had given me.

Once that was done, the third man ran off to check to make sure all their stuff was working.

He returned two minutes later, nodding.

I let out a “Hell yeah!” when the confirmation came: The dish was up and running for the Old Man. Three of four. We had just seventeen hours to get to the final one. But, of course, my job wasn’t finished here.

“Okay, great,” I said. “We’re all done. Thank you for accommodating us. We won’t forget it.”

I waited for them to leave, but, naturally, they weren’t going anywhere.

They just stared at me expectantly.

“I just need to… um… insert a USB drive into the computer here, which will, uh, make all of those changes… you know, um, permanent. But I need some privacy. It’s intellectual prop—”

Their leader shook his head. “So you can change it all back? That’s not going to happen.”

“Why would I do that? The moment we left, you guys would just hijack the whole thing again, and we’d be back where we started.”

They waited.

So my super-secret Satan mission, which no one was supposed to know anything about, would now have even more people in on it.

“I am the worst spy ever,” I muttered to myself.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” I said. I sighed and inserted the thumb drive.

The screen lit up, telling me that the sat was already aligned and sending and receiving data packets. Seeing the prompt flash, I turned to look at everyone watching me.

“Whatever.”

I hit the required keystroke, and a message popped up.

Just below the words Hit F13 for incoming message from Watcher was my third name. I said it out loud.

“Bak Mei,” I said, trying to remember the name. It was too odd for my Western brain, so I called Anza over. When she looked down and saw the name, I ran my finger across her back and gathered up a bit of soot that I used to write the name on my wrist.

Anza turned her head toward me. “I am not this inkwell for you.”

The leader of their group whistled. “Why do you need his name?”

I shrugged. “I… I’ll be totally honest. I really don’t know,” I said. “Do you know who that is?”

“Sure. If it’s the one I’m thinking of,” he said, casually. “Bak Mei is ‘White Eyebrow,’ but he’s also called Pai Mei. One of the Five Elders of Shaolin.”

“That sounds like copy for his D&D trading card,” I said. “Who was he?”

“Some see him as a hero because he helped create what eventually became the organization we want to be a part of.”

Anza said, “Triads?”

The young man nodded. “Others think he’s the most traitorous person in all our history.”

I nodded, unsure why any of this mattered to the Old Man. I looked at the man’s wannabe gangsters then back at him. “How do you see him?”

For the first time, I saw the guy genuinely smile.

“Bit of both.”

“So just some dude, then.”

“Oh, no,” the leader said. “He was part of a group of Shaolin monks that battled an invading army. Just one hundred twenty-eight of them defeated the army of Xilu, saving this region.”

“So… a hero?”

“But then he conspired against his brothers,” he said, turning to meet my eyes. “They all were slaughtered.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“I think it’s a better look for you,” I said, plopping into a lounger next to the Actor. I wasn’t planning on rubbing it in, but things didn’t always go to plan. “And think of how breezy your head feels now. Yeah? Cool and refreshing.”

“Leave me alone,” he grumbled, scratching the fake beard he refused to take off. Now that his eye patch and hat were gone, I wondered if the glued-on facial hair would be permanent.

We’d been in the air for ten hours already, and I’d given him plenty of shit about having to give up his piratey chapeau. I stood up and then, for good measure, tousled his hair. Easier to get to now.

“You should be leaving him with his grieving,” Anza said from her lounger. “He was very attached to this hat.”

She wore an eye mask to block out the light, but none of us were getting much sleep. By my estimate, we had about two hours before the hellfire bullet in Sally’s belly would turn her inside out. I’d long gotten over the idea of being pissed at the Old Man about it. Sure, he could have just blinked it out of her, but—he was Satan, right?—it wasn’t his way.

And he was willing to let my friend die in agony to get four names. I didn’t buy that he was trying to save humanity. All he wanted was our misery, so why save us?

No, he wanted the names for something else.

I made a stop at the cockpit, where Uncle Jerry was looking intently at the gauges in front of him.

“Everything all right?”

“Snarfnh, wha?” He wobbled his head toward me, eyes at half mast. “What’s up?”

At least someone was getting a bit of sleep.

“I don’t know, man,” I said. “You’re the pilot. You tell me.”

“What?” he said, his voice watery. “I’m… I’m not a pirate! The Actor’s the pirate, man. A little less piratey, I reckon, after he had to give up his hat in the trade.”

The hat had been part of the agreement—sort of the cherry on the triad co-op icing.

When the blue buzzy force field had enveloped the PC and the com lines, the triad wannabes got agitated. I didn’t think they could do anything to mess with it—preventing interference was what blue buzzy force fields were for—but I’d come too far to leave anything to chance.

They’d agreed to not mess with the sat signal or computer but only after the Actor had promised them red-carpet premiere tickets to Frank & Earnest in Beijing.

That had nearly been enough.

The third guy was really, really into the pirate hat. I wasn’t sure whether it was because it had been on the head of our famous friend or he just had some swashbuckling fetish. Either way, handing over the costume tricorn hat had sealed the deal.

And had given the Actor an extra helping of crabbyapple that would probably last days.

Uncle Jerry slumped forward again and, face mashed into the altimeter, he began to snore. I gently patted him on the back and started to walk away.

“I love you, Razzie,” he said, his voice distant. “You’re a good boy.”

“Hey, man. I love you too.”

Standing at the lip of the cockpit door, I looked over our little motley crew. Uncle Jerry manning the controls between Z’s. The Actor, pissed off but once again present and putting his life on the line. And Anza. Jesus, it was so good to have her back.

“Whoops, sorry,” I mumbled.

She shifted her head slightly toward me, which was made ten times funnier because of the big cat eyes on her eye mask.

She’d brought it with her. Something about going camping?

This was my crew.

Family. You can say the word “family.” It doesn’t bite.

Is this a family?

Sure. Unconventional, but, really, every family is.

Ha, I think you’re right.

The funny part is the only people it feels unconventional to are the people within. From the outside, others will just see people who care about each other.

I wish we’d had a family.

You and I are a family.

Yes, babydoll. Yes we are.

I sat in the lounger next to Anza as quietly as I could, but, the moment my butt hit the seat, Anza shifted toward me.

“I am not sleeping,” she said, keeping her mask in place. “I am just thinking in the dark.”

“Deep.”

“So, I get that the Hell people need their communication network. But these names must mean something important, yes?”

“Sure, but that’s not my problem.”

She shook her head. “Rasputin, do you know how much trouble people cause by thinking some problem is not their problem?”

“Is it ‘a lot’? I think you are going to tell me ‘a lot.’”

“Si, mucho,” she said and smiled. Then her expression fell. “These are all bad people, these names. So is this Diablo side hustle some sort of recruitment?”

“No, I don’t—” I said then blinked. “I can’t talk with your cat eyes staring at me.”

“Meow?”

“Don’t do that,” I said, frowning. “That is horrifying.”

She slipped the eye mask down around her neck and grinned at me. “Is better?”

“Is better,” I said. “I need to focus on getting the dishes up and running. I can’t be wasting brain space on whatever extra thing the Old Man’s got me on.”

“Right, and what do you get in return for this extra thing?”

“Uh, I mean… nothing. It just matters. Like I said, it has something to do with the very existence of every person on Earth, so…”

“So he says.”

“Right, but,” I said, laughing, “why would I doubt him? Not like he’s got a bad rep for misleading people.”

“Rasputin!” she said and playfully flicked my forehead. “He has the worst rep there is for misleading people!”

“I know. I was being ironic.”

“Oh. Irony is hard to pick up when you don’t speak English so good.”

“Your English is great, Anza.”

“I was talking about you.”

When her beautiful smile spread wide, I was reminded again how much I’d missed her.

“Okay, so, William Hare, who is a man who killed people to selling bodies. And maybe turned children into tiny dolls.”

“I don’t think he turned children into tiny dolls,” I said.

“And then there is the Ned Kelly, the Australian gangster cop-killer who liked to dress in the metals.”

“I hear ‘the metals’ is the new black.”

“And then there is Pai Mei,” she said. “A.k.a. Bak Mei. Who was an ancient traitorous monk with white eyebrows.” She scrunched her face up. “Maybe the Old Man is putting together the worst boy band ever!”

“Probably not,” I said, laughing again. “For one, these guys are all dead.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean maybe? They’re definitely gone. All that’s left are the horror stories they left behind.”

She thought for a moment.

“Maybe it is then about these stories. Stories can be powerful.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “All I care about is saving Sally. So what if the Old Man’s got me running around chasing ghosts?”

Anza was staring off. I’d seen that expression before—her Big Thinkin’ face.

“Ghosts, maybe,” she finally said. “You could be right about that.”

“There’s no such thing, Anza. Once you’re dead, you’re dead.”

Oh, really?

You’re different, Cassie.

Why’s that?

Because you’re wonderful.

Hmm. You have a point.

Anza brought me back from inside my head, saying, “But that Zulu henchman—”

“Henchwoman.”

“Whatever,” she said. “She says she hears the Ned Kelly voice. Ghost voice.”

“Yeah, but she was freaked out. And, I suppose, in their culture… I don’t know, maybe ghosts are a thing.”

“So why is that they are wrong and you are right that there are no ghosts, huh?” Anza frowned. “Because we have the iPhones and flying cars?”

“We don’t have flying cars.”

“I am betting Elon Musk has a flying car,” she said, chewing on a nail. “For his weird vacuum hamster tube train.”

Shifting my weight to lie on my back, I smiled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That woman, Nofoto, says she hears a ghost voice of Ned Kelly. You telling me that, yes?”

“Yes.”

Anza shrugged. “Then that is your answer. Is ghosts.”

“That’s not an answer. Sure, let’s say these three dead guys are now spooky ghosts that wander the earth. I don’t believe it, but it still doesn’t explain any of this.”

She lay back again. “That is on you now. I worked out the ghost part. You work out the rest.”

“Anza, you are—what is that?”

It all happened so fast.

I’d seen just a glint of metal, the sun striking off some casing maybe, as it crossed the windows just off to my right. At first—in that split second—I rationalized it was a shimmer of light reflected off the exterior metal frame.

But I knew I was wrong the moment the wing of our plane exploded.

* * *

“Assume your crash positions,” Uncle Jerry called out, his voice steady and much calmer than I felt it should have been since, you know, we were crashing.

“Goddamn it, what the hell was that?” the Actor said, stumbling out of the back bedroom.

“I… don’t want”—Anza said as she struggled with her seat belt—“to hearing you say these things!”

“The lanky old man in that little metal room up there just said we are fucking crashing, Anza,” the Actor said, racing to one of the empty seats and dropping into it. “Give me a little latitude.”

“No latitude,” she said, snapping the belt with a click. “And no longitude either. I am asking only one thing of you—”

The Actor grimaced as he struggled with his own belt, his shaking fingers unable to work the simple clasps. “Fuck! I thought you got kicked out of the angel brigade anyhow! Let it go.”

My mouth dropped open as I saw Anza unclasp her own belt and run toward the Actor.

Holy shit. She’s finally gonna hit the guy.

But no.

She slid to one knee and smacked his trembling hands away, and a moment later, I heard his own belt click. As she stood up, unevenly now that we were bobbling in the air like a drunken bird, he reached out and put a hand on her arm.

He didn’t say anything, just tilted his head to the side and frowned. She smiled, patted him on the shoulder, then ran back to her own seat and got secured once again.

“Hey, Uncle Jerry?” I shouted.

“Hold on,” he called back over the screaming of the engines. Or rather, engine, since the one on the left side of the plane was now on fire.

I spun my seat toward the front of the plane just as we banked hard, which, in turn, spun my seat further, so I did a three-sixty, which turned into a four-eighty or something, then around again. Seven-twenty?

“Holy shit,” I muttered and felt bits of airline pretzels at the base of my esophagus start to fight for escape. “I just…”

I planted my feet and stopped then swiveled my head to the left to see out the cockpit window.

In front of us?

Water.

Just fucking water.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

The right wing dipped hard, and we banked in a tight circle. The blaring of warning tones filled the cabin as the stench of burning oil made my eyes water.

I glanced at Anza. Her eyes were closed, but her lips moved silently.

For a moment, I envied her. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe. Shit, I knew that someone was upstairs and someone else was down.

I just didn’t feel either side gave a damn about me. So either praying upwards or pledging my soul down just wasn’t any solution. I knew better. I was on my own.

Well, not on my own.

I had my friends.

And, once again, I’d put them in mortal danger.

“Fuck this,” I said and jumped up. I fell to the floor, which hurt like hell, then crawled up into the cockpit.

“Razzie, get back in your seat, son!”

“Thought I might help you up here.”

Uncle Jerry tossed me a quick smile then nodded. The veins in his neck had turned to ropes as he struggled with the controls, so I hopped into the pilot’s seat and reached for the ones there. They were stiff.

“Is there some release mechanism or—?”

“Nah, that side’s busted.”

“Busted?”

“Yeah, might’ve cranked ’er a bit too hard trying to steady the plane,” he said then grunted as he made another swoop, this time to the left. “Don’t have a ton of give on this one either. I’m just trying to flutter it down a bit, lose as little altitude as possible.”

“What can I do?”

Our pilot grunted and released a low moan of pain. Then he sucked in a breath and smiled at me, his face red.

“Know any good jokes?”

I looked out the front window and slowly shook my head. “Not really.”

“Probably for the best,” he said, struggling with the controls. “If I laughed, I’d probably steer us into the drink.”

All around us was ocean.

“Have you ever, uh, done a water landing before?”

He shook his head quickly, sweat coming down in rivulets across his brow. “Nah, but I’m not too worried about a water landing.”

“You’re not?”

“Can’t imagine how we’ll land. More of a water crashing, I reckon.” Uncle Jerry looked at me, trying to force a smile to his face.

I scanned the horizon and just saw more horizon.

Out past our pilot, light-blue sky butted up to dark-blue sea. The twinkling of the sun off the water’s chop below looked like stars in the night sky. So peaceful for such a terrifying moment.

I guess I’ll be seeing you sooner than I thought.

I don’t think so, my dear Rasputin.

I gulped. She was right. My life’s goal was to “do good” so I could see her again, but had I done enough since she’d gone to get my pass through the pearly gates?

Oh, man. I’m… I’m so sorry Cassie. I’ve fucked it all up. I’m so sorry.

Hot tears hit my cheeks, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

All I wanted was to be with you again! It was all I wanted! We deserve that!

We do, Razzie.

And I’ve ruined it. I haven’t done enough to… Oh, Jesus, I’ve fucked it all up!

We won’t be seeing each other.

I know. I know. I’m so—

I mean, my cotton-headed baby, we won’t be seeing each other yet. It’s not your time yet.

I couldn’t help but laugh. A pitiful, snotty, snorting laugh. I—I’m so sorry.

Don’t be sorry. You just need to right yourself. You’ll get there.

I wish I could have.

Listen, you will! Just get right, and all will be fine.

But there’s no time! We’re about to—

Rasputin!

My breath caught in my throat. She knew I hated when she said my name that way. She sounded like my mother. So even moments away from an explosive death, I was a bit annoyed.

What?

Man, guys are so dumb!

Hey!

Right yourself. Get right. Come on, do I have to spell it out?

Uh, maybe? If it would make you feel better.

Open your eyes, and you’ll be all… right.

I did. My vision was blurry.

“What the fu..?”

I looked out the cockpit windows again then—and yes, I was slow about these things—looked right. Past Uncle Jerry. Past the side window. And out there in the deep-blue ocean, to our right, I saw it.

I leaned over, smacked Uncle Jerry on the arm, then pointed.

“You think you can land on that?”

“What?” he said and snapped his head to where I was pointing. “Holy shit, Razzie! Holy shit, holy shit! I can’t believe you saw that!”

The jet wobbled and groaned as he banked harder, pulling the nose toward the sun, then dropped it again.

Amid the blaring warning alerts and flashing red lights and stern voices telling us we were in a lot of trouble, I heard Anza call out.

“Hey! I think I am seeing an island!”

* * *

“Hey, Razzie,” Uncle Jerry yelled over the myriad warning tones and calm yet strident voices pouring out of the cockpit dash. “Maybe you wanna head back into the cabin and strap in?”

“I don’t think—ten o’clock!”

“I see it!”

Our pilot banked hard to the right, back to the left, then up.

“Oof,” the Actor said from back in the cabin. “I wish I still had my hat.”

“Was not crash helmet!” Anza shouted back.

“No, but it would have given me something to barf in.”

“No barfing!”

A missile streaked past us, so close I thought I could read its price tag. We passed through its contrail, panicking the wispy whirling dervishes as Uncle Jerry once again pointed the nose of the jet toward the tiny island’s coastline.

“We’re landing on that?” the Actor said when he finally saw where we were headed. “Our plane won’t fit!”

If it hadn’t been for the killer projectiles it was launching at us, the island would have looked like the perfect holiday getaway.

“Down and back, arching up toward us,” I shouted to our pilot, pointing. “Not quite, uh, four o’clock. More like, maybe, three forty-five?”

“Ha, that may be too specific—” Uncle Jerry said as he leaned forward on the controls and we pitched downward at an angle usually reserved for despondent World War Two kamikaze pilots.

Anza shouted, “No barfing!”

The man beside me was drenched in sweat and drawing in deep breaths through clenched teeth.

I said, “You okay?”

“Well, aside from the explosive ordinance outside my windows… yeah,” he said and flashed me a smile. “Peachy.”

Nothing steel and pointy was headed our way for the moment, so I cast my eyes down at the stretch of beach below us.

“Can you land?”

“Oh, we’ll land. That part is certain.”

“Okay,” I said. “Can you land safely on that?”

He shook his head, chuckling. “I got one engine, so we’re a bit like a drunk duck right now. The hydraulics are being stubborn. Might be a bleed in the line. So I’m not betting the landing gear’s planning on playing ball.”

“That all sounds terrible.”

“They don’t program this little scenario into your average flight simulator,” he said, grinning wearily at me. “Takes a calm hand, a keen eye—”

I pointed at the corner of his mouth.

“And a tightly rolled doobie?”

“No, no,” he said and pulled the pot cigarette out of his mouth, flicking the joint like Groucho Marx. “It actually takes two of them.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another missile coming our way, but unless it was going to perfectly time out a nosedive from up high, it was way off.

“Huh,” I said. “They’re shooting above us now?”

“Nah, we’re too low now,” our pilot said. He slid open his window and tossed out what was left of his joint. “Those sorts of thunder sticks don’t fly so well horizontally. It takes too much thrust. It’s one thing to see a flight line and aim for where they’re going to be. It’s a whole different ball game to arc one like a three-pointer when the basket is moving at two hundred miles an hour!”

“Uh-huh,” I said, shaking my head. “You been shot at by ground-to-air missiles a lot in the past?”

“No more than my fair share, I reckon.”

This close to the island now, Uncle Jerry banked into a tight circle. When we came around, we were even with the tops of the tallest trees, about fifty feet off the shore.

“That doesn’t look like a lot of sand for a runway.”

“Sand makes a terrible runway. Wheels dig right in, and you faceplant on the beach,” he said, struggling with the controls. “But, luckily, our landing gear’s buggered and can’t use ’em.”

“That might be the first time a pilot has ever said those words.”

I was helpless as a doll in a tumble dryer as we dropped lower and lower, the treetops now above us. Looking past Uncle Jerry, what I saw made me grip the armrests even harder.

“Uh, the right engine is smoking.”

“Smoke ain’t the problem,” he said, grunting each word. “It’s the fire I’m a little queasy about.”

“Fire?”

“Yeah,” he said and looked over his shoulder. “Those flames get too close to the fuel line, and the wing’ll go up like a Roman candle.”

“Shit! Where’s the fuel line?”

His eyes focused forward again, he said, “You see where those tiny licks of flame are?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Right about there.”

We were bobbing around as if trying to land in a Pensacola hurricane, moving so much the blood-red warning lights left tracers across my vision. However, those could have come from a contact high.

“When did you light that one?”

He looked down at the twist of paper between his teeth and shrugged.

“Didn’t even realize I did,” he said then slid his window open again and put out his hand. “Okay, you make a call. Sand or water?”

“What? I don’t think I’m qualified to—”

“Don’t matter either way. Both are terrible options for landing,” he said then shot me a full-wattage Jerry smile. “This way, if we die, we’ll share the blame at the Gate.”

“Fine, okay,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut. “Water seems softer.”

“Water it is. Of course, we could land safely but then drown afterward.”

“Sand!” The bark of my own voice surprised even me. At a less barky volume, I said, “Let’s go with sand.”

When he reached up and pulled down the double-buckle straps, I instantly did the same. I called back to our friends, who were both white-knuckling their lounger arms, “Brace for beach!”

“Beach?” Anza said, her eyes as big as dinner plates.

“Aw, damn,” the Actor said, sounding like a drunk. Or a guy who’d just barfed. “Left my pirate Speedo back in Scotland.”

We were so close to the ground, I could see the sharp edges of individual rocks on the beach. Yeah. Rocks. This wasn’t some Playa del Carmen sugar bowl. Chunks of rocks peppered the beach like shit on the bottom of a bird cage.

“Hold on!”

At the last moment, Uncle Jerry cut the engines. I didn’t know why, but I was sure it was for safety or to prevent fire or whatever. When we hit the first rock, though, it sounded like a city bus had smacked into us. My head snapped back against the pilot’s seat so hard, my eyes filled with stars.

They just kept coming, bang-bang-bang. Then we lifted for a moment, nose facing upward—I heard the Actor scream out “Holy shit, what are you doing?”—and then the tail end of the aircraft sheared off, catching on some jagged boulder.

I think Anza screamed, but it was hard to hear over my own screaming.

Induna’s private bedroom had been torn to shreds, but it hadn’t fully separated from the body of the plane, so it acted like an anchor, throwing the craft down on its belly.

We’d landed. We were safe!

Uncle Jerry shouted, “Get off the plane! The right engine’s on fire!”

We were not safe.

I was already out of my harness and stumbling into the cabin. Anza was jumping up from her own seat, and I knelt to help the Actor, who was panicking with his seat belt.

“Get it off, get it off!”

“Hold on!”

Anza leapt over and smacked my hands away then struck the Actor across the cheek. His hands stopped fiddling with his belt and went up to shield himself.

“Not the face!” he shouted. “Never the face!”

When he came free, he choked out a sob. Anza grabbed his hand, and the two of them stumbled toward the hole at the back of the plane. I took a step to follow but then turned back.

“Come on, man,” I shouted, the heat of the fire beginning to hurt my face. “We gotta go!”

“Way ahead o’ ya,” Uncle Jerry said, grabbing a small sack from the overhead compartment. He stepped into the cabin and looked around. “Damn shame. Beautiful plane.”

He was dazed, exhausted, so I grabbed his arm and led him toward the back. When I looked up, I could see blue sky, cool water, and beach. Outside, Anza and the Actor were kneeling in the sand, and she was rubbing the tops of his shoulders as he hunched over, still retching.

Just a few steps and we would be in the clear.

I shouted, sucking in smoke, “I’m right behind you!”

Uncle Jerry coughed. “Can’t see a thing!”

Putting my hand on his shoulder, I said, “Walk forward. In about fifteen feet, you’ll hit beach.”

Then I stopped and looked toward the galley. In front of me was the safety of the beach. To my left, tied down with straps, was Bucephalus.

“What are you doin’, boy?” Uncle Jerry said when he stepped forward and my hand came away. “We gotta go!”

Boo wasn’t just a bike. I knew in my heart it was, somehow, alive. Or some version of alive.

“Only thing I truly ever really loved, Raz,” Sally had said.

I’d agreed to the Devil’s deal to help someone I cared about. No one should have to die because of the choice I made.

Not even a badass motorcycle from Hell.

“Razzie, the damn plane is going to explode!”

Or an old family friend who always had my back, whatever the cost. Now, I had to have his. I took a step forward and put both my hands on his shoulders.

“I’m ten seconds behind you,” I shouted then shoved him toward the gap.

“Not without—!” he started to protest but then fell from the plane to the safety of the sand.

I was down on one knee, working the bike’s straps, my fingers fumbling with the complicated knots. But it was hard to see: my eyes were stinging from the smoke. It took precious seconds, but I finally got the first tiedown free. I moved to the next. I had three to go.

Three.

In a burning plane.

“Don’t think about it,” I muttered to myself, my fingers digging and clawing as rivulets of blood streaked across the rope, bits of my fingernails lodged into the twine.

Ignoring the pain, ignoring the dirty air in my lungs, I lost sight of my hands but felt the rope slacken. A moment later, the second came free.

“Gotcha!”

A blast knocked me halfway across the cabin. Everything went black for a few seconds, but when my vision returned, I could see part of the wing was gone. What was left of it was on fire.

I could survive a hail of bullets and had. If hit by a train, it would hurt, but I’d probably bounce off and live. Watching the flames grow higher and higher through the slash in the fuselage, I knew this was different. There would be no coming back from being blown to pieces.

“Not… gonna…” I struggled to move once again, dizzy. “Happen.”

I crawled toward the bike, a wall of smoke between Boo and me. I felt a hand grip my shoulder and squeeze so hard I yelped.

“I am saving you from burning plane now!” a voice shouted. It was Anza.

I couldn’t even see her, but shook I my head, hoping she could see me. “No! I can’t leave Bucephalus.”

She punched the back of my skull. “Is motorcycle! Not worth dying for—”

“Is not motorcycle,” I said, coughing out black smoke. “Not just motorcycle. Is living.”

Her face next to mine, she growled at me. “Not worth your life!”

I lifted my trembling hand to her cheek and slowly shook my head. “It is. Go.”

“No, Raspu—”

“Anza, go,” I said and smiled. She recoiled, and I realized she could see me—what I looked like working for the Old Man. “Be an angel and go.”

“No more angel,” she said, her voice soft.

I laughed and choked for the effort. “Don’t need wings to be an angel.”

She growled and finally disappeared into the smoke.

Good. Good.

Now, I had to save Boo. I was disoriented, on my knees, unsure which way even to crawl.

The smoke was like liquid night swirling around me, and the edges of my vision were beginning to darken. I yelled to chase the darkness away, but it only came faster as I used up what little oxygen I had.

Move forward!

I smashed a fist into the floor, fighting unconsciousness, then lifted the other and, a few inches farther, slammed that down too. But my lungs weren’t taking in enough air, and my head getting fuzzy.

Then it got weird.

My mind was going, I was sure of it, because I watched a snake coil around my wrist.

A pair of hands grabbed the snake, bending it, twisting it. Drifting away, I felt sad. Someone had tied a knot into the poor snake. Didn’t seem right.

Another boom! resounded, and a blast of dragon’s breath shot through the burning cabin.

It wasn’t enough to stave off passing out—that was going to happen—but through a break in the poisonous black cloud, I looked up and saw the strangest thing. Anza was on my motorcycle. She glanced over to me then snapped her head to the wall of fire racing up the wing toward us.

She screamed.

But halfway through the scream she said a word. Just the one.

“Giddyup!”

Must have scared the snake around my wrist because a second later, it bolted skyward, taking me with it.

* * *

When my mind returned, I was being dragged down the beach toward the tree line, tiny bits of rock raining down over me. Twisting my head from side to side, spitting out grit, I caught sight of a motorcycle tire chewing through the sand.

We finally stopped, and I closed my eyes.

I heard Boo’s double kickstands unfold, then the crunch, crunch, crunch of feet approach me.

A cloth dampened with seawater wiped the dirt and sand off my face. When I looked up, Anza was leaning over me.

“You got your bike,” she said and smiled with soot-stained teeth. “Happy now?”

All the snarky quips in my brain stayed in their cages, arms crossed, shaking their heads. I swallowed, blinking away tears.

“Not yet,” I said. “But I think soon.”

After she’d removed the tie-down rope from my wrist, we both hobbled toward the welcoming shade of the trees. There, Uncle Jerry and the Actor were reaching out to help us over the raised, grassy edge.

Now that I was out of the sun, the air was cool on my skin. We all collapsed to the ground, watching the aircraft burn and catching our breath.

Anza was the first to break the silence.

“I don’t think I am going to fly anymore with you, Uncle Jerry.”

“Why not?” he said, his voice hoarse. “I got us down in one piece.”

“I think this may not be the first time we are landing in pieces! Never happens when I am flying the Delta.”

I laughed. “Yeah, but the Delta is never as much fun.”

“I will take a little less fun for a lot more less crashing.”

“Well, there you go,” the Actor said, wobbling to his feet. “Looks like the Delta has a new ad slogan. ‘Less fun but a lot more less crashing.’ You should submit it.”

Anza chewed on a nail for a moment. She turned to the Actor and said, “Where would I send that?”

I pulled my cell phone out of my cloak and frowned when I saw the time.

“Need to get going,” I said. “We’ve got less than two hours before Sally explodes.”

“You don’t even know where she is, man!” the Actor said, his arms in the air. “Why are we even doing this? That’s the third time since I woke up this morning that I nearly died for someone who I don’t even like.”

I shrugged. “She’s a friend.”

“I thought I was your friend,” he said then jabbed a finger into my chest. “The one she tried to kill the first time I met her.”

“You are my friend, man,” I said. I put a hand on his shoulder then pulled it away just as quick. “Why are you so hot?”

He shot a scowl at me. “Maybe because we just crawled out of a burning plane?”

“Let’s go,” Anza said and started down the beach.

“Where?” I asked. “Where are we going?”

She pointed ahead, moving in full stride. “The missile bombs were coming from the white tower in the middle of the island.”

I turned to my other companions and mouthed, White tower?

Without even turning around, she admonished me.

“I can hear that!” she said. “Yes, the white tower. While you were busy playing hiding-seek with the missiles, I was scanning this place. There is a fifty-foot white tower, and the flying bombs were coming from it.”

“Who puts a tower on an island?” the Actor said, trudging through the sand. “Damn thing would tip over.”

But of course, we all knew who would be the sort to put a fifty-foot phallic symbol in the middle of a pristine island in the Atlantic.

“Hood,” I said, gritting my teeth. “I can understand someone trying to kill me once.”

“You can?” the Actor said, his voice strained.

“But that’s the second time,” I said. “I think it’s time for a bit of payback.”

“Third!” Anza said, raising three fingers. “Back in California at the Friendbook headquarters when he puts me and Uncle Jerry in the trash compactor. He had a big tower there, too, and sat up in his penis-house.”

“Pent-house,” I said.

She stopped and turned to me. “No, is big tower like penis. If he is at the tip, it is penis-house.” She grinned at me.

Anza bolted ahead, ready for the next big fight.

“If that big tower reminds her of a penis,” the Actor whispered to me, “I may submit her husband for a knighthood.”

“He’s a good dude, actually,” I said, nodding. “And yeah, he’s got a giant dugan. That was why his nickname on the radio was Sideshow. The thing was like something you’d see in a carnival tent next to the two-headed calf fetus.”

The Actor giggled wildly. My joke wasn’t terribly funny. We were both just exhausted and trying not to think about what would come next. Hood would have more than just flying missile bombs.

I put that thought aside and began charging up the beach. After a few paces in the punishing sand, I looked up and saw both Uncle Jerry and Anza running back our way, waving their arms in the air.

Just beyond them lay a long strip of sand-swept concrete that led from the water up into the trees. The stretch of concrete looked like a boat launch. If that boat was a three-thousand-cabin cruise liner.

But it wasn’t a boat launch.

A middle cement partition was lifting, about one hundred feet across, like a giant cavernous mouth opening. Dozens of black things were coming out of it. Maybe hundreds.

Then, I recognized them.

“Oh,” I said, exhaling. “These guys again.”

They were coming for us, arms raised, fists clenched, and even from this distance, I could see their mouths open, baring gleaming white teeth.

But, of course, none of them made a peep.

“Belgian Demon mimes.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

“Is it worse that they don’t shout or growl or anything?” the Actor said, huffing as he ran behind me.

Ahead of us, Uncle Jerry called back, “Yes.”

“No, no,” Anza said between breaths. “The rahring and arrghing would have made it more bad. This just feels like a jogging.”

It did not feel like a jogging to me. I was out of shape big time. I had my head down, pumping my arms and legs, but I wouldn’t be able to keep that pace up for very long. Turned out I didn’t have to.

Running up beside Uncle Jerry, I saw him looking down a ragged cliff face. He turned to me with a wry grin.

“We ran outta beach.”

“Let’s hit the woods,” I said and started to turn but then felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Anza.

“Running in the woods, the ankle gets twisted, and then you’ve got ghost makeup people biting at you!”

“They’re mimes,” I said, hunched over and trying to catch my breath. “They don’t bite. Looks like they’ve got… ah, hell.” I turned back toward the advancing horde of black-clad silent attackers. “Clipboards.”

The Actor came up behind me and collapsed, facedown in the sand.

“I’m feeling ya,” I said, then turned to the others, pointing below. “You want to jump down there into the water? We can’t see what’s under the surface. There could be—”

“No, no jumping,” Anza said then straightened her arms and spun toward where we’d come from. “To take stand and fight.”

“Fight? Fight?” I said, taking a half step back from the mimes, wary of the cliff’s edge. “We’re not fighters!”

“I beat up a demigod,” a voice said, muffled from the sand.

“You woulda gotten your ass kicked if I hadn’t smashed the hourglass!”

Uncle Jerry looked between the two of us. “Whoa, I wanna hear that story.”

“Storytime later,” our ex-angel said. “Grab anything you can. We cannot stand here.” She started jogging toward the tree line. “Amongst the trees, so that they are like a sentry.”

I stared at my friend, my jaw slack.

“Sentry?”

“You probably wanna stop just repeating what she says,” Uncle Jerry suggested. “Could make her turn on us.”

With no other options, we crossed the thirty-odd feet into the tree line. Anza had already found her mime-beating club—a chunk of heavy wood ending in a big gnarly knot. When I looked at Uncle Jerry, he had some kind of blade on him.

“Where did you get a sword?”

“The Actor. He had two, but he used one to block the door so we could ride a suitcase down a stairwell to avoid Induna’s guards.”

“Whoa,” I said. “I wanna hear that story.”

“No stories,” Anza shouted, gripping her club.

For his part, the Actor hadn’t even bothered to get up. He just lay on the beach, facedown.

“It’s just a movie prop, so it ain’t sharp,” the old pilot said, swinging the blade around. “But it’ll leave a mark or two!”

Scanning the woods around us, I looked for a weapon of my own. The driftwood just crumbled in my hands. A few stones were nearby, but the small ones were too small, and the large ones I couldn’t even move.

The demon mimes were racing up the beach, less than a minute away, so I grabbed the only thing I could. We stood in a line, with tall, thin palm trees on either side of us. Anza looked over at me and frowned.

“You are going to hit them with a dead bush?”

I held it up. “It’s shrubbery! And very pokey,” I said then added more quietly, “All I could find.”

In ten seconds, the mimes would be on us, and I didn’t feel that a big stick, a dull film-stock sword, and a dead gooseberry bush could do much to hold them off.

I called over to the Actor, but he wouldn’t budge.

Fine, I thought to myself. Wouldn’t make a difference anyhow.

This was going to hurt.

* * *

The Actor flinched when he heard his friends yelling, stirring up some sand around his head. His subsequent coughing fit caught the attention of a few of the stray demon mimes who’d made up the rear of the advancing cohort.

But when they looked at him, they simply frowned and followed their fellow attackers, a silent battle cry at their lips.

Fucking pathetic, he thought. Not even worth a beating.

Usually in depressing, hopeless scenarios, he had one go-to, so he tried that.

The Actor leaned up on one elbow and began digging through his pockets. He pulled two tiny bottles out of his left pocket and one from his right. Some type of vodka with Cyrillic writing he couldn’t understand.

Still, he spun each of their tiny caps off and tipped the bottles to his mouth.

Two drops.

What he wouldn’t have done for a bottle of Chivas right then. Sure, it wouldn’t have helped save his friends, but by the time he’d drained it, he wouldn’t care so much. And he might be able to go free, since he’d not been a part of the fight.

He closed his eyes as the sounds of the nearby battle rolled across the beach.

“Hit them in the head! Trying to knock them out!”

“Dammit, my sword bent on that one’s forehead!”

“Beware my bush of doom!”

Tears began to spring into his eyes, and he chastised himself. Get in there and fight, you fucker.

But he wasn’t a fighter.

He was a coward.

On his sword-and-sorcery show, they called it being craven. Sounded a bit better, almost like he was simply hungry after skipping breakfast. But no.

“‘Craven’ is only fancy talk for ‘coward,’” he mumbled to himself.

Something dug into his side. Something in his pocket. The Actor dug into his pirate jacket and pulled out an old flask.

A smile crept to his lips. My good friend, I’d forgotten about you.

It was the strange, dust-covered bottle he’d gotten from Víðarr the demigod in Scotland as a reward for vanquishing his foe!

Maybe not vanquishing.

Just not getting killed.

Because I am a coward.

But at least he could drink! The Actor pulled the cork out with his teeth and sniffed the contents.

“Oh, Christ,” he said and nearly vomited. “Smells like donkey piss.”

Was that what the Vikings drank? Or Norsemen? Or whatever they were. Who knew? But he did remember what the barman had said to him when he handed him the flask. The Actor thought back to the moment and, thanks to decades of having to learn lines quickly, he recalled the barman’s words.

“Det vil gjøre deg til det du ikke er.”

He pulled out his phone and called up one of the only two apps on his phone. His Redneck Translator.

He’d had it on his device only because he’d spent three months working for a Chinese film company on a sequel to an old Patrick Swayze film. The dreadful script for Next of Kin 2: Once Removed had been written by some hack in Alabama, and it was loaded down with so much redneck language, he’d needed the little indie translator app to work out what the hell he was supposed to be saying.

He hit the red microphone symbol and spoke.

“What does…” he said, struggling with the pronunciation but felt he’d gotten it close to right.

“That sounds like Nor-wee-gin,” the tiny, automated voice said, drawing out the three syllables of the final word. “I reckon it means ‘make your dog’s breath other face.’”

Hmm. Weird name for a beverage.

Obviously, he’d mucked up the pronunciation, so he did his best to put on an accent like the demigod barman’s. His hillbilly translation phone app said, “That means ‘It’ll make ya what you ain’t.’”

The Actor was a coward. If this stuff “made you what you ain’t,” then, for all he knew, maybe it could make him brave. But he figured that phrase was just some old-timey toast or maybe some bad fourteenth-century ad slogan.

Whatever.

It was booze. And that was what he needed right there and then, to make the hell around him dim just a little. He tilted the bottle back and gagged a few times on the taste, and once it was empty, he tossed the flask into the sand.

Nothing.

Not a goddamn thing.

“Stupid Norseman whiskey,” he muttered.

But then he did feel strange. Not drunk, not even buzzy, and that was disappointing. The contents were doing something, but he didn’t remotely understand what.

Did he feel braver?

No.

No, he did not.

“It will make you what you ain’t,” he muttered. Then his eyes rolled back, and his entire body began to hurt. Electric bolts of white-hot pain snapped at every muscle, every joint, his hands, his feet, his legs.

He felt like he was floating, drifting upward.

Fuck, it was poison! I’m dead!

But he wasn’t dead.

He was something else.

* * *

The mimes were coming at us in waves, crashing toward our line. Our defense force was the three of us plus the line of trees. I wasn’t really sure how much our woody allies were actually helping out, though. Sure, they could take a hit, but they were terrible fighters. Lazy trees!

“Keep going,” Anza shouted over our grunts as we dodged sharpened clipboards. “We have to beat them off!”

At those words, the two Belgian demon mimes in front of us stopped, clipboards raised. They looked at her and got quirky grins on their faces.

I scowled at them.

“She doesn’t mean that!” I yelled at them.

The one on the left, nearest to me, then did that mime thing of putting their fist up by their eyes, twisting it back and forth in a mock cry.

The strangest thing happened. The sky became dark.

There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The day was a perfect deep blue. Yet all around us, the woods had turned to dusk. Even the demon mimes stopped and began looking around.

“Is eclipse?”

“No, Anza, I don’t think so,” I said, trying to find the sun. “Maybe it’s…”

Then, I saw it.

It stepped forward, and the ground shook. Another step, and mimes began to scatter everywhere.

Not an eclipse. Not a big raincloud or low-flying jumbo jet.

It was the Actor.

“Shiver me whiskers!” he bellowed in a voice so loud it was half battle cry and half roar. If I’d looked over at my friends, I would have half expected to see their hair flying back like in cartoons.

I couldn’t believe what I saw. “What the hell?”

Uncle Jerry, holding himself up on a nearby tree, said between gasps. “He’s… he’s enormous!”

“He’s huge!” I said.

“He’s naked!” Anza added.

And he was.

There stood the Actor, fifty feet tall, and he was buck-wild nekkid.

“Feel my wrath,” he roared, “demon seed!”

The giant pink creature began swiping at mimes left and right. They flew away, mouths open in silent screams. The hair on his chest was gnarled and in unpleasant brambles. And no, I wasn’t going to look down. I wasn’t emotionally prepared to see below the belt, especially when he had no belt.

The only thing that looked a little strange—aside from his impossible size—was what looked like a tiny tuft of hair on his chin.

A red burst of scruff just below his bottom lip.

“Oh,” I said, to no one in particular. “That’s his fake pirate beard.”

Anza squinted at it. “Is now soul patch.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes it is.”

The hunched-over Actor swept his hands back and forth, knocking demon mimes into the sea, into the trees, smashing onto the beach.

“Behold my feet of doom!” he declared and began stomping on the remaining mimes, who all scrabbled around in circles trying to avoid him.

“He’s killing them!” Anza said, her hand to her mouth.

“Well, they were trying to kill us,” Uncle Jerry said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’re Hell-contracted, near impossible to kill, so—” I stopped as the Actor reached down, grabbed one of the feistier mimes by the shoulders and legs, and pulled it apart. He tossed the halves in either direction.

I nodded. “Okay, that one is very likely dead, but the others will be fine. A bit sore in the morning, sure, but—”

“The path to the tower is clear. Let’s go!” Uncle Jerry said and started down the tree line, loping along and breathing heavily. “Gotta shut it down before missiles start a-flyin’ again.”

Our enemies had either been knocked into the ocean or fled in one of two directions along the beach. Except that one guy who’d fled in both directions.

Blechy.

“Raaaazz!” the Actor boomed. He stood with his hands on his hips. “Look at the size of my dooooo-gan! Sideshow’s got nothing on me!”

“Dude, I don’t wanna see your giant junk!” I shouted then smiled. “But nice going on the… whatever you did.”

“Víðarr’s whiskey wasn’t whiskey!” he shouted back.

Anza and I were chasing Uncle Jerry. She said, “What is he talking about? Why is he saying my husband’s name?”

“I dunno. Weird, huh?” I said and yelled up to the Actor, “We’re heading to the tower!”

We ran down the beach back to the cement-slab landing area, where a handful of Belgian demon mimes were panicking, looking for a way back down below. Why are they even here in the first place?

But of course, I knew that answer.

Hood.

Somehow, he’d tracked us and set up an ambush. Didn’t matter. I had to find a way off the island and get to the location of the next dish, somewhere on the US mainland. A boat or plane had to be nearby, but I wasn’t going anywhere until we’d disabled the big white tower.

I had flown past Uncle Jerry, who was bent over and sucking breaths, but not before checking to see if he was all right.

“I’m all good,” he said between gasps. “I’ll catch up.”

Anza was already standing on the concrete landing, ignoring the demon mimes, who now had zero interest in the four of us.

Well, they had some interest in the Actor because he was five stories tall and smacking them left and right with huge sweeps of his arms. As I rounded up to Anza, I saw him pick up three mimes in each hand and hurl them into the water.

“You smell like rotten cabbage, matey,” he growled, his voice so loud it hurt my ears. “Time to take a bath.”

Great.

It was troubling enough to deal with his giant willie waving in the breeze, and now he made us listen to bad buddy-cop movie lines?

“Is he going to be staying this way?” Anza said but did not turn around to look.

“Dunno. Demigod voodoo, so it’s, you know, all voodoo to me.”

“Don’t say ‘voodoo’ so much.”

I was too exhausted to laugh, but I said, “It’s a fun word.”

She nodded, brushing some sand and a few bits of blood off her cheek.

“How do we get into tower?”

“Oh,” I said. “I was kind of hoping you had an idea.”

“Maybe is underground to get in?” she said. “But there are doors up there on either side of the lighthouse.”

“It’s not a lighthouse,” I said, but I had to agree it did kind of look like one. “And those doors are way too high up to—”

The “doors” opened, and two massive turrets jutted out then tracked downward toward us. When they locked into place, I jumped in front of Anza.

The air crackled, and there came a sound like someone firing up the world’s largest microwave oven.

My arms around my face, I saw on either side of me lines of sand, which thick, red beams of light turned to glass. When the beams struck me, I felt my cloak split and my chest burn like I’d fallen into a bonfire. I went down.

“Oh… darn,” I said, still trying to honor my friend’s rules about swearing. “That kinda hurt.”

She crouched down next to me, reached down, and cradled my head.

“Are you okay?”

“No,” I said, sucking in breaths. “I got shot with—what are they, fucking laser cannons? Damn thing tore up my cloak.” We both glanced at the fabric, which, surprisingly, looked no worse for wear. “Good cloak.”

We heard the hydraulic shift and clank of the guns repositioning.

“Get behind me,” I said weakly. “Readying for another shot.”

Instead, she grabbed my cloak with both hands and dragged me out of the line of fire. But I was a chubby bunny. That wasn’t going to work.

“No, no,” I said, waving her away. “Just run. I’ll be okay.”

“I’m not to leaving you!”

The ground around us shook as a massive foot came down between us and the cannons. I heard them fire—an odd, unnatural weeooowee sound—and then an echoing grunt from the Actor.

He leaned in, the cords in his massive neck straining. “Get away from my friends!” he shouted.

Then he started toward the tower, taking big lumbering steps as he did. “Fee-fi-fo-fum,” he bellowed. “I smell the oil of your tower guns!”

Oh, Jesus.

“His banter is terrible,” Anza said, her eyes cast down as the shadow passed over us.

A massive arm reached into the jungle and yanked out a handful of palm fronds. I watched the Actor crush them between his fingers and then fit the makeshift patch over his left eye.

From the tree line, I heard Uncle Jerry yell, “It’s on now, baby!”

“Beware the Dread Pirate Earnest!” the giant naked man shouted, flexing his arms.

He took a step forward and crouched in a fashion that reminded me of Las Vegas Elvis circa 1977. Then the Actor bellowed once more.

“Shiver me whiskers!”

His two massive fists slammed either side of the tower, and the tremor rattled my teeth and shook the nearby trees. He’d punched both of the cannons, but they’d remained intact.

But the tower did lean a little to the left.

When he smashed the right side again, a blue starburst erupted at his knuckles, but his fingers never reached the cannon—a thin column of air protected it from attack.

“He’s got some sort of force field thingy protecting him.”

Anza said, “What is force field thingy?”

“Some Hell-tech shield,” I said. “But if our boy keeps bashing it on the side, he could knock it over.”

“Knock it over!” Anza shouted.

“Hit it again! Quick, hit it again!” I said.

“Come out, come out, little piggy,” the Actor said, enjoying his vigilante action-man role far too much, dragging it out, bending forward and roaring at the tower. Yes, roaring. He took a half step back and raised his arms like eagle wings. “I’ll huff… and I’ll puff… and I’ll bl—wuahuah.”

Anza frowned at me. “That is not how that goes.”

“Look!” I said.

We watched as the fifty-foot naked man stumbled left and right, putting his hands out to steady himself. He took out a dozen trees on one side, righted himself, then went down on one knee.

“I don’t feel so g—” he said, his voice warbling. He gaped at his left hand, which was deflating like a balloon. He held up his other hand. It was doing the same.

Uncle Jerry stumbled up next to us, hunched slightly. Breathing heavily, he put one hand on my shoulder.

“What in God’s name is…”

We watched in horror as the Actor’s head began to shrink, followed by his torso. He was making a fluttering keening sound, moaning as his body began to misshape in front of us.

Anza pointed. “He is shrinking again!”

Whatever the Actor had done—he’d said something about whiskey?—was now wearing off. He was returning to normal size. And it looked painful.

“Quick, you guys gotta get into the trees,” I said as the two tower panels slid open again. I knew what would come next.

“What about you, Razzie?” Uncle Jerry said.

The Actor was swaying, all his limbs shrinking but at different rates, so he was unsteady, losing his balance.

“Go,” I shouted. “Just take cover!”

They both ran back to the trees.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” a loud, tinny voice said. I scanned the beach, trying to find its source. “What a total fail! I got it on video, too, so I can watch it back when you’re dead.”

I looked up at the very top of the tower. Through the glass three-sixty penthouse, I could see the silhouette of a man with his arms raised in the air.

Hood.

“Neat trick. And it should get me a few hundred million views!” He laughed again, and then I spotted the loudspeakers mounted above the penthouse. Who would put loudspeakers on their home?

The Actor was groaning, his limbs and head now shrinking fast. Everything was returning to normal size.

Almost.

Almost everything.

He lolled his head, which was still about ten or fifteen feet off the ground. While his head, legs, torso, and arms had shrunk back to normal size, he was still, uh, not done.

From the darkness of the trees, I heard Anza shout out to him, “Why are you now sitting on this giant pink beanbag? Get out of there!”

The two laser cannons reengaged now, both locking onto the Actor, who was, at this point, unable to run. His legs weren’t yet touching the ground. I ran to him.

He stared at me as I closed the gap, eyes unfocused.

“I wonder if it’s going to stay like this.”

“I hope not,” I shouted as I ran, one eye on him, the other on the two massive guns. “Looks, um, uncomfortable!”

“It’s not so ba—uuugg!”

Finally, his massive junk began to shrivel, and within a few seconds, he was lying prone on the sand. Again. Then I sprinted full tilt toward him, pumping my arms and legs as I did. I could hear the hydraulics of the cannons as they repositioned then locked into place.

Laser fire erupted from them, tracing a line of red fire up toward the Actor. When he saw it, he curled into a ball, covering his face and head.

But before the beam reached him, I did.

“F-f-f-f-f-f… fuuckkk,” I said then collapsed in front of him.

He looked up at me then at the tower. “Jesus, Raz. Did those hit—?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, and groaned. “Oh, shit, that one really hurt. How does it look?” I turned around and showed him my back. When I spun around again, he was just finishing crossing himself.

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“You might need a new cloak,” he said, slowly trying to stand, but then he fell again.

“You’re going to need everything, dude. You’re buck-ass naked.”

He smiled up at me. “But I was pretty good, huh? Took out the demon mimes and nearly knocked down the penis-house.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Nearly.”

Two more rivers of crackling light crisscrossed the beach, and I huddled over my friend and took another shot across the shoulder. Struggling to breathe, I fell next to the Actor, gasping for air.

“Get… get under me, man,” I said, my eyes losing focus.

Instead, he stumbled to his feet and grabbed me by both wrists. Slowly, very slowly, he began pulling me across the sand. My head fell to the side, and I could see we were leaving a trail of blood.

Weeoowee-ooowee! Weeoowee-ooowee!

Hood fired again but missed because I was flat on the ground, and the Actor, frankly, was a harder moving target to hit. His next strike wouldn’t be so careless.

“Run, man,” I muttered. “Run into the trees.”

“Shut up,” he said, grunting. “If anybody’s gonna be the action hero, it’s going to be me.”

I could hear the whirring of the cannons above. The whirr-clack of them locking in place.

Weakly, I said, “If he hits you—”

“He ain’t gonna hit either of you!”

Uncle Jerry said that. The crazy old bastard was now standing between the tower and the Actor, who was covering me.

“No, man, don’t,” I said, watching my old friend face the tower, his fists at his sides. “Get back.”

“No getting back,” Anza said, stepping between Uncle Jerry and the twin laser cannons. She crossed her arms over her chest and began shaking. Her face twisted in exertion.

“Come on!” she shouted, but this time it wasn’t at the tower. Or anyone on the beach. “One more time, give to me one last time!”

She began to tremble. Then, slowly, a faint white glow began emanating from her body.

“Wait,” I said, weakly. “I thought—”

Light radiated around her, and when she looked up at the tower, a white brilliance blazed in her eyes.

“Mi familia!” she growled with an intensity I’d never seen in another human. “Back off my family!”

The laser cannons unleashed their terror, directing both beams at Anza.

“Aagggh!” she screamed, leaning into the thick electric streams and raising her arms higher as the white light around her shone brighter and brighter. I could smell something like frying circuitry.

The beams cut off their assault. She collapsed, sucking in deep breaths, her trembling arms holding her up.

“Are you okay?” I called to her and got a weak nod in return. “Come on, go, go, go! Everyone needs—”

But my words were cut short by the sound of the beams firing again, and I watched, terrified to see my friends burn before my very eyes.

But the lasers went wide, nowhere near us. My own breathing started coming back to me, just slightly, and I wobbled up to my feet, placing a hand on the Actor’s back.

He lifted his head and cheered. “He missed!”

I turned my head, squinting in the sun.

“I don’t think he was shooting at us.”

The four of us stared as a lone figure hobbled up the landing ramp, slipping every now and again on the sand. When the lasers cut through the air again, they struck the person, and their shoulders hitched left and right.

The figure on the ramp staggered momentarily then started walking again, adjusting their hat as they did.

“Oh my God,” I said. “It’s Sally.”

She hobbled up closer, one of her hands balled into a loose fist and pressed into her side. I could see a red glow through her fingers and knew the hellfire bullet was burning right through her flesh.

“What is she doing?” Anza said, exhausted.

We could only watch as the gunslinger loped up the concrete ramp. She looked terrible, her face pale and framed by stringy, sweat-soaked hair. She was close enough that I could see her expression, a painted-on grimace.

But when she hitched her head a little toward me, that grimace turned into a weak smile.

Still walking, her mouth in a line now, she lifted her free arm. She was holding something.

“What the hell, man,” the Actor said, his voice raspy. “Does she think she’s going to shoot that tower?”

I squinted and blocked the sun with my hand, trying to get a better look. But what I saw broke my heart.

For the past few days, I’d been flying from continent to continent, hoping to save her from the excruciating death of burning alive from the inside. But here she was, when the four of us were down, coming up the ramp with what little energy she had left.

She was trying to save us.

Then I saw what she was holding. “She must have grabbed that out of the plane.”

“What? She’s got a gun.”

“Not a gun.” I sighed. “A flare gun.”

As if on cue, she lifted her arm, gazed down the sight, and fired, sending a red, smoky trail snaking toward the tower. We watched the flare arch over our heads and ricochet off the top of the tower, casting out electric blue veins where it had hit the protective field.

The flare went straight up then fell back down and landed harmlessly on an undulating patch of blue light, several feet above the penthouse roof.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” The booming, mechanical voice split the air. “Ya totally got me! Ha, ha, ha!”

She kept coming, and I watched as she loaded another shell into the flare gun but had to look away. Sally would never want me to pity her. She’d have shot me with a real gun if I’d ever done that, so I couldn’t watch.

I heard the mechanical turrets above us whir and lock into place, one of them clanking several times, not quite getting set. Maybe the Actor did more damage than we thought?

Sally’s last flare made a pitiful ftttttthhh sound. But she was apparently so weak, she’d fallen back, because it had gone straight up in the air, arched back behind her, hit the water, and extinguished.

The turret above us finally clicked into place. Both were now pointed at her, but Sally, defiant, stumbled to her feet and stood her ground.

The rumble of machinery filled the air.

“Dammit,” I shouted, turning to the tower. “Enough already!”

Hood had more tricks up his sleeve.

Oh, Jesus. Sally. I’m so sorry.

I stared at the tower, scanning its walls, bracing myself for whatever I might see pop out next. Photon torpedoes, plasma guns, or maybe some massive Wile E. Coyote–style black cannon might burst out of its roof. But when the sound got louder, I realized it wasn’t coming from the tower.

The sound was coming from the shoreline.

I looked back as Sally fell to one knee, her eyes still locked straight ahead and up. I knew she was glaring at the tiny figure in the glass enclosure. But Hood wasn’t looking at her. He was looking past her at a ship the size of a skyscraper as he churned past the beach.

“Oh. My. God,” Anza said under the roar of the ship’s engines.

The ship was moving slowly, and I hadn’t yet even seen the back half of the massive sea-going machine when four cylindrical tubes as big as railroad cars swiveled on giant metal gimbals and pointed at the tower. When I looked back, the figure behind the glass was slowly backing away, waving his arms back and forth.

This time, when I looked at the tower, I smiled.

“I get it. Those fields made the tower invisible to an attack. But the flare up there?” I said, fighting the urge to cough. “That ship’s loaded with heat seekers.”

The Actor lifted his arms, baring his entire naked body to whomever was on the ship, and shouted, “Release the hounds!”

“Oh, shit,” I said and grabbed the naked man’s arm, running toward the tree line. I looked up and waved my hands forward, shouting to Uncle Jerry and Anza, “Go, go, go!” The moment my foot hit the dirt, we heard the whoooossshhhh of the missiles flying over our heads.

***

Hood looked around his glass-enclosed tower penthouse with an odd combination of panic and weariness. None of his myriad devices would stop the attack.

As the missile from the battleship—a fucking battleship!—grew larger and larger in his bay window, time seemed to slow. In a blink, he’d watched it as paralyzing fear gave way to now calm, disconnected fascination.

The blitz of calculations across the LCD screens above the window revealed that while the MX-powered exotic field generators had sufficiently protected him from the hairy, naked giant’s attack—how had they pulled that off?—the juice required to shield him from the missile’s wrath would mean he’d come up short.

Not by much. He’d be short by less than one percent of the MX he needed, but alas, he did not have enough power to stop it.

The end was coming. His much sooner than the other one.

He’d been shown that grand finale, but until now, his world had been a billionaire’s playground, a raunchy Club Med at the foothills of Pompeii.

I’ll never see it.

The thought brought him both disappointment and relief. The prurient part of his nature wanted to see what the End of All Things might be like. However, the more practical side knew the End of All Things was merely the Beginning of Something Else. And from what he’d been told about The Four, he didn’t want to be around for whatever that Something Else might be.

The missile was closer now.

In his final moments, his thoughts betrayed him. Always so confident, arrogant he could admit now, he knew no one would mourn his death. No drinking buddies to raise a glass. No colleagues insisting on a workplace moment of silence.

If he’d had time to take a breath—the missile’s cone was so close he could see individual rivets—he might have even laughed.

In the next moment, he would be gone, and no one would care.

His final thought was: Came up just one percent short?

Then he flicked his eyes down to his wrist, at a weave of pink wrapped around his wrist. He exploded with the hint of a smile on his face.

***

We felt the heat of the sun erupt behind us.

The blast threw us all to the ground, which was shaking like the island had been hit by a nine-point-holy-shit earthquake.

After the shaking stopped, I asked everyone around me if they were all right. They replied with a series of groans and coughs, but all in all, we were uninjured from the blast.

However, I could not say that about the tower. Impressively, it was still standing upright, but not like it was. The tower was now half the size it had been before. The upper half was raining down in smoldering pieces toward the other side of the island.

I hoped that somewhere in that debris was one smug asshole in a flaming hoodie.

The Actor broke the silence.

“You think they got a galley somewhere in the bottom there?” he said. “There may be a potpie or a Hot Pocket in a freezer or something.”

He started walking toward the smoldering tower, and Anza slapped her hand over her eyes.

“First, please to find some clothes or something in there,” she said, her voice strained. “I do not want to stare at hairy dwarf butt anymore!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I left my crew behind, racing down the beach as fast as I could, and let them argue about clothing and vittles.

Ha! Vittles!

I’d missed Sally and was smiling like a teenage prom king as I ran toward her. She hadn’t seen me yet because she was talking with some officer-looking dude who’d just stepped off a flat metal boat that could also buzz around on land.

It reminded me of the duckboats I’d been on in Boston. Those were World War I–era amphibious vehicles repurposed as tour buses that could wind through the old city’s narrow streets and shoot a few hundred feet up the river.

This boat was a twenty-first-century version of that.

What was old made new again.

As she talked to the man, decked out in full military dress, she gripped her side. The blood-red light emitted there was so bright, I could see the bones through her hands.

My smile collapsed. “Jesus, Sal.”

“Hey, Raz,” she said as she turned her head and looked up at me as casually as she might say, “Yeah, fish tacos sounds good.”

I knelt beside her to take a closer look.

She gave me a small, sad smile and shrugged.

“I was always gonna go out on a bullet.”

I checked my phone. I had maybe twenty-eight minutes before she was dead. How could I get to New Orleans in under half an hour?

She started to speak, but then I held my hand and put the middle finger into my ear, cupping my palm under my chin.

“Hello, billable hours begin—”

“Shut up, it’s me,” I sneered at the Advocate over the line.

“Oh, dee-lightful, my weeping abscess, my gangrenous—”

“We need more time!”

A laugh came from the other end. “You were given time, Rasputin. You have failed. You do that a lot, if memory serves. This should come as no surprise. Least of all to you.”

“We could have made it but got shot out of the goddamn sky by your Hell inc. buddies.”

“They are not,” he said, chewing his words like he’d bitten into a bad oyster, “our buddies. Far from it.”

“I thought there was some rule about taking out, I dunno, higher-level members on both sides.”

“Yes, but you’re the…” he began saying but then his tone changed quickly. “Wait. No, no, no, you’ve got it all wrong. Despite you being the most annoying human I’ve ever come in contact with, they would not have tried to kill”—he dropped his voice in a mock dramatic tone—“Rasputin Frewer.”

“I’ve got laser burns all across my back and chest that might argue with you,” I said, fumbling over my words. “If burns could, you know, talk. Which, I know, they can’t!”

Sally winced and hitched forward. The military man who had knelt beside her looked up at me. He must have heard the Advocate, because his head snapped up.

“Oi, mate. You’re Rasputin Frewer, are ya?” he said, stood, and extended his hand. “You lot have an unbelievable story, but this young lady can be quite convincing.”

“I bet.”

“But,” he said, grinning, “hard to argue with her after she’d shot herself in the chest then sculled down half a bottle of tequila.” He nodded down at my friend. “But whatever that thing in ’er is, seems like it’s ready to tear through her gut.”

The Advocate was blathering at me on the line, and I put it back to my ear.

“—which, frankly, ha ha, is not possible.”

“What are you going on about? I don’t have time—”

“You are confused, my agitated anal fissure. Trust me, they would not have tried to kill you, Ras—”

“Bullshit, they did, and, no, fucker, I don’t trust you,” I said and quickly glanced again at my phone. “I’ve got twenty-six minutes. The moment that last sat dish is in line, you get this thing out of my friend.”

From the other end came a long silence then a sigh.

“Yes,” the Advocate said. “Yes and only then.”

I rolled my hands into fists and looked around for anything that could get me a thousand miles in about twenty minutes. Then I nodded over at the huge ship the military man had rolled up in, just off the island’s coastline.

“How fast does your big boat go?”

“It’s a ship, mate, not a boat,” he said, and gave me his flat grin again. “Aussie navy’s finest and, yeah, she’s plenty fast.”

“Can it get me to New Orleans in about twenty-five minutes?”

He looked down at Sally then back at me and shook his head. “Nah, mate.”

“God-damnit!”

Then he turned and casually pointed at his ship, where a set of double metal doors had opened, the top of some machine rising from its hull.

“Ah, but I do have the Falcon,” he said, his grin doubling in size. “Some of our newest kit, got some complicated designation with a lot of Xs, dashes, and numbers. But me and the lads just call ’er the Falcon.”

I watched as an aircraft not much bigger than a milk truck came into view. The craft was shaped like a bullet. A bullet with fighter wings.

“And yeah,” he said turning back to me. “That’ll get you there. But she goes a mite fast for anyone without any training.”

“Great, that’s fine,” I said and started running toward his flat boat, where a couple of crew members were already spinning it around.

“Oi,” he called over. “You haven’t eaten recently, have ya?”

“What?” I said, jumping into the metal watercraft. “No.”

“Good.”

* * *

“Visualize world peas,” I said, regretting that I’d vocalized anything about food and quickly added, “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”

When I thought about it—and I didn’t think about it much—the speed wasn’t really twisting my brain and stomach into knots. It was the Aussie at the wheel or stick or whatever was up there in front and its tendency to swoop left and right.

Like he was enjoying this shit.

“My kid beat up your honor student.”

We were flying low enough that if I could crack a window and drop my arm down, I’d touch the Gulf of Mexico. Of course, if I’d did that at Mach bazillion-gillion or however fast we were going, I’d expect to pull back a bloody stump instead of a hand.

“Almost there, mate,” the pilot’s voice crackled in my ear. “You’re a lucky cunt, you are. No civvie’s ever taken a free ride in the Falcon.” After I didn’t respond with undying gratitude, an indicator light flashed to tell me he’d run some diagnostic on me. This told me all I needed to know about what these speeds were capable of doing to a human body.

He’d checked my vitals to make sure I was conscious. Or maybe just alive.

“Ah, you’re doing good,” he said.

“Feeling good, Louis!” I shouted, not because I had to, but I thought tensing the muscles in my abdomen might stop my stomach from trying to escape from whatever hole it could find.

“My name ain’t Louis,” he muttered into his mouthpiece. “It’s Bryce. Told that you when we’d whipped past Florida.” He pronounced it Flah-rada.

I’d been trying to calm my stomach, which was doing jumping jacks, by reciting all the bumper stickers I could remember. It wasn’t helping much. Switching to lines from eighties comedy movies wasn’t, either, but at least it kept my brain a bit busy.

“Two minutes until zero,” he said. “Which, according to the timeline my commander gave me, means you’ve got nine minutes to deliver the package.”

I slipped my fingers into my cloak and fingered the USB stick. If I’d really believed in praying, I might have done it right then. But moving at this speed, I didn’t think anyone would have heard it.

“One minute.”

I turned to look out the window and instantly regretted it. Closing my eyes only made it worse, so I stared straight ahead at the digital display ahead of me.

“Life moves pretty fast,” I mumbled. “If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

“What? Don’ worry, mate. I won’t miss it,” the pilot said then added, “Thirty seconds.”

I tensed my whole body. Nearly there.

“Those coordinates puts us just off the coast of the state of Louisiana.” He’d pronounced it Louise-ee-anna, and I winced. Then I heard him do something with his controls that made a beep boop noise, and I tried to ready myself.

“Not much down there, not even a town,” he said. “It’s just off a saltwater pond called… Big Hellhole Lake.”

Of course. Of course it was called that.

I swallowed down bile for the millionth time and said, “This thing do a water landing?”

The speakers made a slapping sound in my ears, and only after a few seconds did I realize that the guy was laughing.

“Landing? We ain’t gonna land, sir.”

Yeah. Thought he was going to say that.

“You’re all strapped in, so you should be sweet as,” he said.

“Sweet as… what?”

“What?” he said. “Ten seconds. You may want to hold the armrests, because I think this may be the first time we’ve used the ejector in a real-time situ.”

My scrambled brain knew that he’d said something about being ejected from the jet, but another part of me, probably my spleen, made the sign of the cross and said anything to get out of the plane sounded like a great plan.

“Hold tight and keep ya legs straight down as you go!”

I stared up at the sky, waiting for the glass or whatever was above me to shift back, then held my breath. But instead of shifting back, it lifted from my vision. I wasn’t rocketed into the sky. A second later, I saw the underside of the craft, which disappeared from my view less than a second later.

“Wha—oooff!”

Dropped, not launched.

Still, the gut punch of the lower atmosphere had stolen my breath and wasn’t giving it back anytime soon. I blinked, trying to get a bead on my surroundings, but the edges of my vision were going dark.

“No, no,” I said to myself. “No time to pass out. Blacking out is for later.”

I leaned forward and saw the ground come up fast. Some part of me that might have been the spleen again, since it was getting a bit mouthy, vaguely wondered why there was no chute above me to break the fall.

“Oh, Jesus.”

The ground was rushing at me like a runaway train. We’d gained a bit of altitude before the approach, maybe a few hundred feet, but I could see trees and tributaries and the ocean all getting bigger and bigger in my field of vision.

I squinted, ignoring how fast the Earth was hurtling toward me, and could make out the edges of an old structure. Like a log cabin, though it was hard to tell because the wood had taken on the same dirty, grimy hue as the land around it.

Still no chute.

Had they told me about a chute? Was there a rip cord that needed to be, uh, ripped?

What the hell?

“Oh my Go—uff!”

About fifty feet off the ground, the back of my flight suit turned into a mini-sun, and I looked down to see flames shooting damn near to the ground.

Ah. That was why I had to keep my legs straight.

Had I not, I would have ended up with something like cartoon drumsticks hanging from my hips. My arms flew up, and I was at the total mercy of whatever Aussie-g’day-mate jetpack abomination controlled my descent.

As I fell, the flames disappeared, and the thrust eased off, but I was still sending dirt and grass and very likely tiny lizards blowing off in all directions. Then I landed on my feet, softly, like some baby who’d been put down by a parent to go run and have fun with his friends at the playground.

It took a full minute to strip off the suit and lose the helmet because of the many clasps and zippers and release buttons. I stepped out of the suit and stumbled, legs wobbly, toward the… shack? Home?

The building had a wrap-around porch that didn’t wrap around well anymore. Much of it had rotted away. Some had warped, and some had just dissolved and returned to the elements it had been originally created from.

Tripping out of the suit, I first trotted then ran for the door and was surprised to find it locked.

“This place is abandoned. Who the…?”

I thought of just kicking in the door. It was made of some pretty hardy wood, but after maybe a hundred years or so in the swamp, it looked like it might come off its hinges with just some harsh words.

I took a few steps back, trying to work out whether I should kick the door or pound my shoulder against it, when I noticed an open window.

“Right, then.”

When I fumbled inside and fell down, the first thing I noticed was that the building had no floor. Dirt and damp everywhere. The furniture inside was something out of a spooky horror film—dilapidated and falling apart.

The shack didn’t have anything from this century or the last, let alone a computer setup. I checked my phone: four minutes.

“Shit.”

A door there looked like it led to a bedroom, so I shot through that. After a short hallway, I found just more of the same. A bed that had no frame and looked like it had been made from grass or straw that had long since rotted, leaving only a gooey black sludge behind.

“Yick,” I said. Two rooms with nothing in them. Two rooms and—

“A hallway.”

The short connector between the two spaces was basically the only part of the structure I hadn’t scanned. Sure, the setup might be underneath, but with everything like a sponge around me, I didn’t think this place had a hidden basement.

This time, I did not hesitate, and I kicked through the wall of the hallway.

My leg went through, and I gripped the edges of the rotting wood until the hole was big enough to slip through.

There it was.

I couldn’t see a dish anywhere, but I did see what I needed. I ran up to the computer, jammed in the USB, and stepped back. Just outside the window, I heard the whirring and clanking of a dish out in the reeds.

A moment later, the screen lit up and showed me as the others had.

Finger in ear, I shouted, “It’s done,” before the prick could even give me his standard assholey greeting.

The line was silent. I pulled my hand back and looked at it then jammed my middle finger back in. I was about to scream into my hand, but he finally spoke.

“Yes, yes,” the Advocate said in a casually dismissive sing-song tone. “Good. Great. Yes, Pendleton says the job is done.”

“And?”

A sigh. Then another.

Finally, he said, “What do you want, a medal? We’re fresh out. And the ones we do have burn the flesh to the bone. Through the bone, so—”

“No, fucknut! I want that damn fireburst out of—”

“Yuss, yuss, it’s done,” he said like he was merely confirming my coffee filter order. “Your friend is, from what I understand, lying flat on a beach somewhere, recovering.”

“Okay. Good,” I said, my voice getting watery. “Thank you.”

“Oh, hell’s bells,” he said, and I actually heard him physically recoil over the phone. Err, over the finger. “Don’t ever utter those words to me again!”

“Not a problem. I don’t ever want to talk to you again.”

“Perfect arrangement. But, alas, there is another matter.”

“No there’s not,” I said and pulled my finger. A moment later, it rattled and buzzed, but I ignored it. So tired, I actually giggled. “I’ll let that one go to voicemail, I think.”

Sally was okay.

I dropped to the floor and released a long, long breath.

“I’m done,” I muttered to myself. “I don’t wanna do this shit anymore.”

The insanely old Commodore 64 computer beeped and warbled, its speaker sounding like a dying cancer patient asking for one last drag of their Pall Malls. When I looked up at the screen, it was blurry. I wiped my eyes, rose slowly to one knee, and read the screen.

Hit F13 to get message from the Watcher.

I slumped, back down. What was the point?

It was done, mission accomplished, but not in a George W. way—I was really, finally done. The speaker trilled at me one tone higher, and I knew that it was counting down to its lockdown force-fieldy thing.

My first thought was “screw it,” and I was dead set on walking away.

But the request came directly from the Old Man. Not that I owed him anything or that I actually worked for the guy, but… maybe having a chit from King Asshole would be a good thing?

And, conversely, getting on his bad side?

There were entire books of the Bible about how that turned out.

“Fine.”

I set an elbow on the crumbling desk, punched in the keystroke, then looked at the timer.

3… 2…

“Oh, shit,” I yelped and fell back, tucking my legs in. When I looked down, I saw the bottom half of my coat had been sliced in half by the invisible field. “Goddamn it. This is a good cloak.” I wobbled to my feet and looked down.

Okay, I had to admit that the coat had a bit of a cowboy Columbine look to it before, swishing around my heels. Now it was just about halfway up my calves.

The back was torn up with holes from Hood’s laser cannons. Not to mention the dirt, burn marks, and bits of blood that…

“Hey,” I said, looking down at it. “That isn’t…”

I slipped it off and looked at the back panel. No tears. And no burn marks, blood, or dirt either. I stared down at the bottom of the panel and saw it slowly start to extend back to its original length. I blinked.

There weren’t any magic fairy sparkles or anything. The cloak just went back to the way it was.

Huh. Good cloak. Never need a dry cleaner.

I had a thought and turned, looking down on the floor next to the rickety table. Yep, the bottom sliced-off bit of coat was still there. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, but it didn’t matter. Time to go.

The blinking of the cursor on the screen drew me back.

Oh yeah. The Old Man’s final name.

Like the others, it was just two words. The first had been a homicidal cadaver collector who had possibly moonlighted as a prolific child killer.

“William Hare.”

The second was a notorious Aussie gangster and cop killer.

“Ned Kelly.”

From China, we got a turncoat monk who got more than a hundred of his brothers murdered.

“Bak Mei.”

But this final name was the oddest of the bunch. It sounded like a character from a seventies action flick. I couldn’t help it—I laughed just saying it aloud.

“Voodoo… Cher?”

I turned away, chuckling to myself, but then I had to look back to make sure I got it right.

“Yep,” I said, lifting a foot to climb out of the hole I’d kicked in the hallway. “Voodoo fucking Cher. What a joke.”

“That’s not very respectful.”

Okay.

I hadn’t said that.

My ankle rested on the jagged opening of the wall, so I pulled my foot back and turned.

I tried to keep my voice even but failed entirely. “Hello?”

“Hello, handsome,” the voice said. But it was so strange. I wasn’t hearing it. The voice seemed to be in my head. Or something. “That’s a face I’ll never forget. And that will bring you pain. So much pain.”

Clearing my throat, I felt like I was losing my marbles.

I was exhausted, and, sure, I could have put it off to, well, losing my marbles, but I had heard a voice. I was sure of it.

“Uh, I didn’t mean any disrespect,” I said, sounding like a child and hating myself for it. “It just… I mean, I’m sorry.”

It was quiet. Maybe I was just hearing things?

“Okay, so I’m going to go now.”

“Wait,” the voice said, a bit louder now. “You can hear me?”

Think quick! Think quick!

“Uh, no,” I said.

Shit.

I clamped my own hand over my mouth because it couldn’t be trusted.

“How can you…?” the voice started then faded. It was female, but I couldn’t tell whether it was young or old. And I couldn’t see the person behind it.

The voice couldn’t have come from the computer. That speaker was good for nothing but a coaster after thirty-plus years sitting in this shack.

“What is your name?” it finally said.

“It… why?”

“You know mine. Call it courtesy.”

I spun around the room, looking for where she might be hiding, but the space was no bigger than a walk-in closet. There was nowhere to hide. And if horror fiction had taught me anything, it was that you didn’t want to anger spooky disembodied voices.

“Rasputin Frewer,” I said, but then I felt something darken inside me. Why didn’t I give her a fake name, dammit? “I mean, it’s, uh, Adam Sandler.”

I was the worst spy ever. Before I could say anything else, she spoke again, the voice now sounding like it was coming from my own head.

“Rasputin,” she said with a smile I could hear. “Why are you here?”

I shrugged. “Just, you know, house hunting. Looking for a nice place for the winter. Gets cold up north and—”

“Why is my name on that computer?”

“It’s… I don’t know. I just, you know, read it myself. Never heard of you. Weird, huh? Um, where are you?”

She laughed, and I felt it ripple through my blood and bones. And lower, if I was honest. The voice was kind of sexy.

“Jesus, stop it!” I chided myself.

“Who are you talking to now?”

“You, I thought.” Where was she? “Listen, I’m just going to—”

There was an odd swooshing sound, like the sucking of some 1950s science lab vacuum device. Unearthly.

“It’s still not clear on how you can hear me, Rasputin,” she said like she was thinking aloud. “It doesn’t… oh. Oh, that’s right.”

My nervousness tilted toward frustration but then raced past it and landed hard on anger.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Hmm,” the sexy voice—no, not sexy! Scary!—said. “You’ve got a terrible mouth, Rasputin Frewer. If I placed my lips on yours, would I be able to taste that dark rage with my tongue?”

I was in real trouble, and I knew it. But more than anything, I wished I didn’t have an erection.

You need to get away from here.

Cassie?

There is darkness here, hon. Real, pitch-black darkness.

“Who are you talking to now?”

“Nothing! No one,” I said. “Hold on. Are you in my head?”

Silence.

Then: Raz, go! Now!

Whether Cassie was just some bit of my subconscious or… I don’t know… something else… she was right. Or I was right. Whatever.

I put my foot out of the busted bit of wall again, quickly this time, and started to slide away.

“There is really only one way you could hear Voodoo Cher,” the voice said.

Great. A spooky voice who spoke in the third person. What fresh hell was this?

“So I expect I will see you very soon, Rasputin Frewer.”

My head and body clear, I threw myself into the hallway, glanced left and right, and raced for the door. The voice spoke to me one last time.

“When I do, I will show you what true darkness looks like.”

This time, I did kick the door open, and it crumbled into pieces. I ran from the shack.

To my right lay the pile of my Australian flight suit, crumpled in a multimillion-dollar heap. All around me was just barren swamp. A wasteland.

Empty except for the old man under the hood of his beat-up truck, steam pouring around his arms.

As I got closer, I saw that he was wrapping some dark, sticky tape around one of the hoses. He turned his head slightly in my direction and smiled.

“Only thing for it,” the man said in a low Southern drawl. “A bit of tar tape. Fix it up right for a little while.”

He lifted his head out, slammed the hood, took out a dirty rag that had been hanging from the pocket of his overalls, and began wiping his hands.

“I remember you,” I said, slowly. “You helped me get across the Gulf in my plane-boat last year, Alvin Stoddard.”

“And I remember you,” he said and nodded at the cab of his truck. “I’mma supposed to take you back into town, but, if you don’t mind, I’d rather go up to maybe Biloxi to get you sorted out. Me and New Orleans ain’t on speakin’ terms.”

My mind was whirling, but the exhaustion had sapped away what little strength I had. Doing as the man said, I walked over to the passenger side, hopped in, and closed the door. A growl came from somewhere around my feet, and I yanked them up.

“Dafuckisthat?”

I jumped when the driver’s door slammed, and the old man just laughed. “Don’t mind him. He don’t bite.”

Then I heard a long, drawn-out, damp sound.

“But he do smell like hell.”

The dog just looked at me. When my eyes began to water, I rolled the window of the old truck down.

“You work for the Old Man,” I said.

“As do you.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Not anymore.”

He fired up the truck and mashed the accelerator a few times, revving the engine. “Ha. We all say that.”

“I mean it.”

“We all say that too,” he said, nodding slowly. “And, son? We are all mistaken.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

When I got back to Hood Island, I was startled at first because the guy who met me wasn’t what I expected. Not at all.

“Wait,” I said, covering my head as the Australian navy chopper lifted off the ground. I turned back to the lone person on the beach. “What are you doing here?”

The guy in the muddled face paint gave me a shrug then pointed down the coastline with one hand, waving me forward with the other. After his kind tried to murder my friends and me, though, I was naturally a wee bit hesitant.

“Hey, pal, I don’t wanna go anywhere with you.”

He put his hands up to his face and looked a bit like the old Home Alone poster. Then he did that thing again in which he started fake crying. I was too tired to mess around, so I grabbed the guy by his tuxedo shirt and pulled my fist back.

He threw his hands up in surrender then covered his face.

Ah, hell.

“Aggr!” I growled. “What are you doing here?”

He pointed down the beach again then seemed to reconsider. Then he raised a finger in the air with a wide smile. Belgian demon mime-speak for “idea.”

He then hunched his shoulders, pulled a hound-dog expression, and put one hand on an imaginary wheel. With the other, he twisted his thumb and finger back and forth.

“I don’t get it.”

He sighed theatrically and tried again. This time he made a brrrrrrrrr noise that undulated as he moved the wheel. The mime crouched a little then stood, then he leaned as he moved his hand.

“Uncle Jerry?”

He smiled wide, pointed at me, and touched his nose. You got it!

Then he put a hand on his hip, his mouth working in a silent chatter, while he did a sort of swishing thing with his finger. And he did the chicken-head thing.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “All right, all right. Anza.”

He touched his nose again and started to get down on his knees, but then I grabbed his arm.

“I got it, I got it,” I said, sighing, lifting him back to his feet. “The Actor. He’d hate to see you do that, so don’t ever, and I won’t kill you. ’Kay?”

The Belgian demon mime widened his eyes and waved me down the beach, urging me to follow.

“They’re down there?”

He nodded with a great big smile. So I followed as we walked down the beach. I called up to him as we trudged through the sand.

“Hey, you made a brrrr sound for the plane. Thought you guys were supposed to be totally silent.”

He turned to me with an unsettling grin and placed an index finger over his lips.

Our secret.

* * *

On the other side of the island stood a small resort. Not something you’d find in a brochure but the sort of secret hideaway you’d expect a billionaire to create to impress other billionaires.

Six tricked-out huts spread out as if at the top of the spokes on a wheel. In the center was a gathering hut with a full kitchen, satellite TV, and bar.

When I stepped inside, it was hugs all around. We were laughing and crying, talking over one another, happy to be alive. No cuddles from the nineteenth-century gunslinger, of course, but she did offer me a hand to shake, and I accepted it.

I had a brief flash of Nofoto’s tiny rural town. The joy of return was universal.

“I suppose I owe ya for high-tailin’ it around the planet and damn near getting your friends killed,” she said, trying not to smile. “But I don’t like owing people anything, so let’s call it even.”

“Works for me. And we are, really. We were sunk until you showed up with a godda”—I hesitated and looked over at Anza, who’d cocked an ear in my direction—“a gosh-darn warship! How’d the hell did you pull that off?”

“It’s mine, mate,” a voice said from behind me. It was the officer I’d seen earlier, but the most important part, the only important part, was that he was holding two drinks. He handed one to Sally and one to me.

“Never had a war-decorated bartender before,” I said. “A demigod one time but never a military man.”

“Ah, you’ll like that one,” he said, nodding at the liquid in my glass that was the color of the morning sun. “That there’s a paloma. Bit on the top is dried grapefruit, so ya get your vitamin C too.”

I sipped it and winced. He’d not mentioned the tequila, but it was good.

“So, General—”

“Captain. Captain Hamish Clark,” he said. “Don’t have generals out on the drink, and we don’t have much use for them, frankly.”

The guy’s smile had the uncanny ability to flip some lever in your brain. Instantly, you couldn’t help but like him.

“So, Captain Hamish Clark, you took one of your country’s battleships halfway across the world because…?”

He took a few steps and dropped onto a long, upholstered sofa that ran the length of the wall.

“We were actually in the Atlantic when this young lady sorta fell into our laps.”

“They pulled me out of the water,” Sally said. “I ain’t too good of a swimmer.”

The military man laughed.

“Didn’t know what she was, but we saw her drop like a rock. We sent down a submarine drone with a camera, and we get a shot back, and it’s ol’ Sally here,” he said and laughed. “Twenty thousand leagues under the sea, and there she was, flipping us the bird with both hands.”

“That’s my Sally,” I said, smiling.

“Funny thing was, despite some of my crew shitting kittens about ’er, she wasn’t a bomb or a depth charge or anything like that. The funnier thing—she wasn’t dead. Just sort of shuffling along the bottom,” he said. He looked at Sally with a quirky smile and shook his head. “So I knew we were dealing with something unnatural.”

That remark actually rankled her a bit. “Hey, mate. I’m as natural as they come! In fact, if I was to strip these britches off, you’d see—”

“Please, please,” I said, holding up my hands. “Do not finish that sentence.”

She shot me a quick look then rolled her hands so the Aussie would get on with the story.

“She hasn’t filled me in on all the details, and I understand that. We all got secrets,” the man said. “But she did say a name that, I’d say, triggered yours truly.”

“Ned Kelly,” Sally said. “Bastard thought he was hot shit back in my day. What a buffoon.”

“A right bloody terror is what he was. And, in fact, one of my great uncles, or great-great-uncles, can’t recall, he got in ol’ Ned’s crosshairs and paid the price. So if that sonofabitch is, as Sally tells it, somehow still alive—”

“He’s not alive,” I said. “I don’t think.”

He nodded slowly. “Well, the ghost of Ned Kelly is probably even more dangerous.”

“Yeah… what?” I looked at him, unsure of what I’d just heard.

“If he ain’t alive but still causing a ruckus, you must be talking about ghosts, yeah?”

For a long moment, I looked at the man dressed head to toe as a symbol of a nation’s strength and fortitude. Square-jawed, high-and-tight haircut.

And here he was telling ghost stories. Before I could even form the question, he answered it.

“Ah, mate, you see all sorts of stuff out in the blue,” he said with a crooked grin. “Most sailors I know are superstitious as. Redheads, bananas, whistling, all that stuff. And many I’ve known have had a run-in with some sort of otherworldly, unexplainable rubbish.”

“Ghosts?” I said, blurting the word.

He nodded. “Yeah, a number of times over my thirty years on the drink. The ones in port are pretty benign, I reckon. Trying to peek in on ya when you’re dressing.” He laughed, but it faded as fast as it had come on. “Out there, though, that’s a different story. Something about the water—they get trapped, maybe. Makes ’em mean as and can cause all sorts of havoc if they get on board.”

For one of the few times in my life, I was speechless. I hadn’t had a lot of conversations with high-ranking navy sea captains, but I’d never imagined we’d be discussing this.

The man kindly filled the silence.

“So when Sally got me up to speed after talking to her finger…” he said then nodded at her. “Gotta get me one of those, by the way.”

“You don’t want it,” she said. “You think Verizon contracts are hard to get out of? You have no idea.”

He nodded, obviously having no idea indeed. But I guessed this man had come to accept there were weird things in the world he would never understand. And he was totally fine with that.

“As I said, I got an old family score to settle with ol’ Ned, so if that means I take an unauthorized detour on a covert training mission and launch some missiles at a buddy of his, so be it.” He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “It does help to have a ship that no one can see on radar, I reckon. Fewer questions from the brass.”

I had a million questions, but before I could pick one, he stood up, wiped his hands on his pants, and said he had to get back. Before he left, he extended a hand to Sally, and she shook it.

“You be wary of that old bastard if he is around,” the Aussie said in a hard voice. “Some of the folks back home see him as a bit of a hero. But he was evil, that man. Pure evil.”

She tipped her hat, and he spun on a heel but then spun back slowly.

“Listen, miss, I was wondering if… I know you’re quite busy with all this savin’ the world businesses and all that.”

Sally smiled at him with a full set of teeth. Actually smiled.

“You gettin’ sweet on me?”

“Well, I was just hoping that if you had a free moment one day,” he said, doing this funny thing of twisting his cap back and forth, “if I could take you to dinner sometime?”

I looked between the two of them and wished I could be anywhere else. Anywhere else. Back at the table, the dark side of the moon, anywhere but there at that moment. I waited for her to shoot him.

Then she surprised me and said, “Okay. I’ll hafta check my calendar.”

“Of course.”

“I feel it’s important to mention,” I said, my palms sweating slightly, “that her previous eight or nine beaus are dead.”

He smiled at me. “Then I don’t have to worry about ex-boyfriends trying to crush my groove, yeah?”

Crush my groove?

Sally merely tipped her hat again, and he was out the door.

“Jabber!” I turned my head at the sound of the Actor’s voice. “Another cocktail for my friends. No fruit in mine this time. I’m thinking of going keto.”

I looked over, and the demon mime gave a theatrical bow then rushed behind the bar.

“Jabber?” I said as I sat down with my friends. “You guys call him Jabber?”

“Is ironic. Because he does no talking, so we say—” Anza said with a wide, beautiful smile.

“I got it.”

Uncle Jerry put a hand on my shoulder as I retook my seat. “Sally told us the powers that be said we can get a bit of R&R on the island for as long as we’d like. All the grub and drinks we want, so I say… sounds like a plan.”

My friends all lifted their glasses and clinked them together.

We talked for about an hour. Laughing and telling stories, catching up. Again, I wondered why we’d ever drifted apart. Sure, we all had our own lives, but they needed to be, in some way, intermingled.

I was going to make sure that happened.

They were my friends. The best friends I had ever had.

“Oh, I may have forgotten to mention,” the Actor said. A chorus of groans came up around him. I smiled. “It seems with Frank & Earnest being a box office smash, there’s talk of a sequel,” he continued. “In fact, I’m sure there will be.”

I laughed. “Confirmation that Hell is winning the battle for Earth.”

“Which side?” Uncle Jerry said.

“Do it matter?” Anza said.

“Wait, I have a great idea,” he said, jumping to his feet. “You guys gotta be in it! The sequel. So we can hang out, you know?”

“In the movies?” Anza said, trying to sound like she wasn’t into it but not succeeding. “Okay, but I will not be doing the full nudity! That is not an option!”

Uncle Jerry nearly choked on his drink. “So you’ll do the half nudity?”

“Sure.”

My jaw dropped. “Really?”

“A sexy scene has two people, so they can be naked, but I will not be,” she said and smiled widely. “So half nude.”

We all broke, and then I looked around for Sally. She had sat with us for a few minutes at a time, but she’d gotten up and walked out into the sun. At first, I thought she was just enjoying being on dry land once again.

Then I saw that she’d had a finger in her ear. I tried to ignore it, put it out of my mind, but just couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried.

Something was up.

CHAPTER FORTY

The Old Man sat back in his torn-up Barcalounger, smoking a cigar and swirling his whiskey in a glass. When his “guest” entered, he didn’t bother knocking, as usual.

“Janus,” he said.

“Satan,” Janus said and sat down in the feeble chair across from his host. “Why wicker? It’s like sitting on a bird nest. Nasty things, birds’ nests, full of excrement. And chia seeds.”

The Old Man sighed.  Now that the satellite dishes were realigned, his intel network was back up. It had verified what he’d already suspected, and it was time to put all the cards on the table.

He watched as the leader of Hell inc. materialized his own drink in a surprisingly dainty wine glass.

“What is that?”

“Sauvignon blanc,” Janus said and sipped. “It’s dreadful. But we’ve convinced a bunch of Kiwis to pump this stuff out all over the world.” He grinned wildly. “Big win for our side.”

The battle for control of Hell had been raging for three-quarters of a century. That was a blink of an eye for the Old Man, but it still had felt like forever. All these corporate types thinking they could run the Downstairs better than he?

Morons.

They had no idea.

And their latest takeover scheme was the worst ever. As in ever, ever. And it was one that the Devil could not allow, but before he could get into the subject, Janus piped up.

“I passed by my man out there,” he said, sneering. “After Rasputin and his moron crew blew him off the planet!”

The Devil showed no reaction. “Your man tried to kill Rasputin and his moron crew. More than once.”

“No, no… he wasn’t trying to kill him. You know I won’t allow that. He was just making a point,” Janus said. In the distance, he could hear the plaintive wailing of Hood and actually bristled at the image of the man he’d seen moments earlier. “How long is he here?”

“Really? It’s the realm of the All Time. There is no ‘how long,’ or is that too hard for your feeble mind to grasp, human?”

“I am more than that, now,” Janus said with a wicked grin. “I am a king about to finally take my throne.”

The Old Man hated that some former human thought he was on equal ground with a god. But he put that bitterness to one side and got onto the business at hand.

“I’ve learned that you are planning to draft a partnership with four people. Four of The Dead.”

“Your information is…” Janus said, grinning, “dated. Problems with your communication network? News not trickling through so much?”

“Coming back online,” the Old Man said. “Dated how?”

Janus shrugged and looked down at his manicured nails.

“Are you insane?” The Devil leaned forward. “They want to bring the total extinction of all humans on the planet. You want to be a part of that?”

“What?” Janus laughed. “The Great Satan cares about the humans now?”

“How can you be so dense?” He threw his hands up. “No people, no misery. No MX.”

The Hell inc. boss’s smile grew, and a twinkle sprang to his eyes.

“It’s a small concession. And humans are not the only creatures on the planet,” Janus finally said. “Squirrels are very promising. Quick to frustrate, they hate board games, especially the ones with tiny holes, and if we just—”

“I won’t allow it.”

Janus jumped to his feet, downed his glass, and threw it. The glass dematerialized before it could shatter on the wall.

“Lucifer, you don’t know The Four,” he said, his eyes darting around the room. “Their power is beyond anything you can imagine. Like nothing we’ve ever seen.”

The Devil laughed.

“Maybe you,” he said. “You’re new here. I’ve seen it all.”

In his chair again, Janus leaned back, crossing his fingers over his chest. “You’ve been down here too long, old man. Things work differently now. I was in the Earth’s new corporate world. You weren’t. And when I was CEO of Baby Gap—”

“One of ours, by the way.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” The Hell inc boss laughed. “See? You know nothing of industrial espionage and information theft and corporate spying! In fact, I’ll let you in on a secret,” he said, pleased with himself. “Back when I was alive? That was how I discovered what Hell was up to. What you had your grimy fingers wrapped into. It took a few years, but I had your entire network laid out in front of me.”

“What of it? What good did it do you?”

Having found his rhythm again, Janus grinned, showing a mouth of misshapen teeth.

“It was everything I needed to set up shop in your house. I built Hell inc right there,” he said, pointing at the Old Man’s face. “Right. Under. Your. Nose.”

“I should have put you down long ago,” the Devil said, his hands clenched into fists.  “It’s time to settle this, once and for all.”

“Agreed,” Janus said and stood slowly, casually brushing some invisible lint from his vest. “I don’t know where the power of The Four comes from, but with them by my side—"

“You’re already working with them?”

Janus spun around, the grin coming back like a tidal force. “A short time ago, I realized you may be too powerful for my organization after all.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“But not with The Four!” Janus said, his face dancing with excitement. “With them, I can finally beat you, Lucifer! With them, you are over.”

“That will never happen,” the Devil said, standing slowly. His anger getting to him, he couldn’t help but fire a shot into a very sensitive subject for his enemy. “I’ll put my best man on it.”

Janus’s head snapped toward him. “Leave Rasputin out of it,” he said then recovered. “Or don’t. The more you use him in your plans, the more he’ll learn about your organization. In a way, you’re the one preparing him to one day succeed me.”

The Devil shook his head, a grin splitting his face. “You don’t know Rasputin Frewer like I do.”

“I know my son!” Janus barked.

The Old Man’s smile dimmed by a degree, and he said, “We’ll see.”

“It would be a good time to get your affairs in order.” Janus walked over, put his hand on the doorknob, then slowly pulled the door open. Standing with the hellscape in front of him, he drew in a deep breath and smiled over his shoulder.

“You can’t do this, Janus.”

“This is the end of your reign, oh Great Satan. It’s finally my time to become the Lord of Hell.”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

“I gotta hit the head,” I said as the others started making plans for the evening, which naturally, would include a private showing of Frank & Ernest on the 65-inch television.

Finding the right bathroom took me a moment because Hood Island had embraced that horrible tendency to use cute character representations to discern men from women. Took me a moment. I’d first gone into the one with the stingray on it.

“Nope.”

Man, ladies’ rooms always smelled so nice.

That only left the door with the hammerhead shark. I had no idea if there was some implication or subtle lewdness there. Just too tired, didn’t care. When I went inside, it was totally dark. As I fumbled for the light switch, I felt a hand grip my shoulder.

Whooosh!

I blinked away the blowing soot and ash and saw that I was back in the same hellscape I’d been in outside of Sally’s destroyed ranch house. When I looked toward the hand’s owner, once again, the face of Oscar-winning actor Gabriel Byrne was there.

“You have something for me.”

He desperately wanted the names I’d collected, and, since I’d already given the Advocate the first two, I told him the third was someone named Bak Mei, also known as Pai Mei.

But, for the moment, I held onto the last one.

“I’ve got a few questions first.”

He looked at me in a way that was hard to read initially. But, Devil, right? It wasn’t a good look, and in this case, it might be one of those “So you wanna give eternal damnation a try?” glares. Which were what most of his glares probably meant anyhow.

I said, “So, ghosts are a thing, then?”

“Yes, Rasputin. Not in the way your feeble minds define them. I mean, you use images of the trapped souls to sell movies and ‘haunted houses’ and have children dress up in sheets so they can get tiny sausages from strangers.”

“Sausages?” I grimaced. “Candy, man.”

“Oh. That must be new. Useta be tiny sausages.”

“It was never sausages.”

The Old Man nodded. “Hmm. Wrong planet, maybe.”

“What?”

He ignored me. “Can I get the final name now?”

Something tickled my brain about what he’d just said. And, sure, I had a fallen god before me, but dammit I felt I’d earned a few answers.

“Wait, you said ghosts were ‘trapped souls.’ What does that mean?”

“This wasn’t really… in the original design,” he said. “But then, you know, the All Time, so now it was always in the original design.”

My head was spinning. “So you’re just not going to tell me?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

A strange expression crossed the Old Man’s face. If it had been anyone else, I would have said it was pity.

“I won’t have to. It will become clear to you. Soon enough,” he said, again choosing his words carefully. “That final name now, Rasputin?”

To draw it out, I rattled off the four names as he pulled out a Sharpie, pulled the cap off with his teeth, and wrote the last one on his arm.

“You can’t remember one name?” I said, putting my own arm behind my back. Ahem.

Still scribbling, he spoke with the marker’s cap hanging out of his mouth like a stubby cigar. “I’m old. First thing to go is your memory.”

“Right,” I said. “Just curious—how old?”

He actually smiled at that but didn’t bother answering. Recapping the Sharpie, he stared at his arm for more than a minute. That doesn’t sound like a long time, but stand in front of someone, saying nothing, for a minute. It’s a long damn time.

“This final name,” he said at last, “troubles me.”

“I didn’t make it up. It was right there on the screen,” I said, sounding like a little kid.

“Hmm,” he said again, then his eyes grew wider.  “It couldn’t be.”

I said, “I googled her, by the way.”

“Why?”

“Because we knew—”

“We?”

“I knew,” I said quickly. “Royal we.”

The Devil frowned at me. “I am literally called The Great Deceiver. Do you think you can lie to me?”

“So you got a nickname.” I shrugged. “I was called Buttons when I was a kid.”

His frown turned to a smile. “No you weren’t.”

“Not the point,” I said. How much does the Devil really know about me? “I couldn’t find anything on someone named Voodoo Cher. All the search results came up with variations of Cher the singer. The one in the Indian headdress is a fave. Sexy in an unfortunate culturally appropriative way.”

“Hmm.”

“Again with the ‘hmm.’”

He looked back to his arm, staring at the name.

“You know, something odd did happen at that last site,” I said, fighting a slight tremor in my voice. “I think she, you know, talked to me.”

“What? What? None of them were supposed to see you!”

“Whatever! All these people are dead, man. You didn’t tell me before that the ghost thing was real.”

He sighed. “Real enough. But I fear she is something different.” Then he scowled again, still looking at the name. “Dammit, Rasputin, I told you not to complicate this. They were not supposed to know you even existed.”

“Fine, it happened. It’s over. You’ve got your four… four…” My voice trailed off as something struck me. In my brain, the realization was like a tiny rock at the top of a mountain. Some passing neuron nicked it, and it began to roll, tumbling down, down, down, and as it did, it picked up more and more stones with it, growing and growing.

Until it was an avalanche.

I was being played. And I’d been played from the start.

“Wait—”

“There is no time to wait,” he said, eyes flickering around. “You have to—”

“No!” I shouted. Yes, I shouted at the Devil. Vince Neil would have been so proud of me. However, the Old Man didn’t like it so much.

I had to tread lightly.

Something flitted across his face, hard to read, then he sighed and nodded once.

I started in. “The first time you roped me into getting those lamp pieces—”

“Didn’t rope you in. You wanted to do it,” he said with a knowing smile.

“Four pieces, four locations,” I held up my fingers, waggling them. “This time, four dishes, four locations.”

He chuckled. “Today’s afterlife was brought to you by the number four.”

“So when—wait, Sesame Street?”

“One of ours, of course.”

That was going to cause a deep, long-seated childhood trauma to fester, but I put it aside. I needed an answer.

“Now there are four names? Come on, you want me to believe that’s some coincidence?”

“What if I told you it was?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”

He squinted. “That’d be your first wise move since we’d met.”

“Spill it.”

The Devil dropped down nearly to a sitting position, hands on knees, and waved me down.

“Knees are a bit rickety after a few billion years,” he said. “Tried yoga, even invented hot house yoga, but that was just for the MX. But it seems—”

“Enough stalling,” I said, exhausted and uncomfortable in the crouch. “I’m not entirely stupid. You could have picked anyone to go on this mission of yours. Why me?”

“You have…” he started then shook his head and chuckled softly. “What does it matter now? Yes, okay, yes. We have been preparing you.”

Those words sent a cold shiver through me.

“Preparing me? You mean like for dinner or something?”

He pointed at me, his face plastered with a grin. “You’d rather make a joke than get the truth?”

“Humor is God’s greatest gift.”

Not surprisingly, he flinched, and I could see him trying to control his anger. I was really pushing it. Again, he stood.

“I want an answer,” I said. “Preparing me for what?”

“For the end-game, Rasputin!” he said, and the dark world shook around me. He then spoke so angrily, so fervently it hurt. “I had to know you would endure. When it was too hard, when it was impossible, that you would never stop as each step got more difficult than the next.”

Finally the message clicked.

“You want me to take down—”

“The Four, yes!” he shouted, fire shooting from his eyes, singeing the hairs at the top of my head. “Whoops.”

I felt like the entire world was balancing on my chest, making it hard to breathe. That probably also had something to do with the trail of smoke now drifting from my noggin.

“Why don’t you do it?” I said, rasping. “You’re a god, for God’s sake.”

“They are different. Not of here. Outside of my domain,” he said then muttered, “I have no idea how that happened.”

“Fine, whatever,” I said, wanting more than anything just to get back to my friends. “These are four measly little humans, right? Ex-humans, who cares. Why does any of this matter?”

He started to speak but then snapped his head just over my shoulder and frowned, staring off in the distance for a moment.

“What is your end-game, Rasputin? What is your goal?”

“To get to my Cassie,” I said, my hands involuntarily clenching into fists. “You know that.”

“To ‘do good,’” he said. “Hard slog now since, after all, you’ve been working for me recently, so—”

“What’s your point?”

He stepped closer.

“What would you say if I could give you a chance to do something great? Something that would save every living person on the planet? It doesn’t get any greater than that, does it?”

“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”

“So you agree? You will do anything to destroy The Four and get to your Cassie once again?”

I tried to play the last few minutes of conversation back in my head as quickly as I could. He was up to something. Another trick. But the thought of seeing—

Razzie, you can’t trust him.

I know that! But if there’s a chance I can get back to you—

Not like this.

I don’t know of any other way!

Baby, I—

“Rasputin,” the Devil said, his eyes starting at something far behind me. “I need an answer now. This is your last chance. Your only chance. I will not make the offer again.”

“Yes, yes,” I shouted. “Yes. Anything.”

“That’s a verbal contract. Valid,” the Old Man said. “And agreed upon.”

“Fine.”

He nodded quickly. “Plans are in motion. We need to act fast.”

“What?” I said. “Now?”

“Yes, now,” the Old Man said. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it very much.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Don’t worry,” the Devil said. “Easy peasy.”

“You’re right. I don’t like it very much,” I said and looked to the horizon where, once again, dark creatures were charging toward us. “Fine, fine. How do we do this?”

“Stand still,” he said and sighed, taking a step back. He raised his arms slowly, and a dark, pulsating storm beginning to swirl with rage around us. His hands above his head, lightning bolts arced between his elongated fingers, swirling with power.

“What’s happening?” I shouted over the screaming wind.

“Don’t move. I’m going to have to kill you first.”

“Um,” I said. “What?”

<<<<>>>>

ACKNOWLEGEMENTS

Writing a novel is a solitary experience. Aside from the wandering eyes of a tenacious, attention-seeking feline, no one sees the work until you write that last word. After that, you’ve got trudge through the first draft to beat it into the right shape. Then a second. And a third.

After that, my lovely group of beta readers take a crack. This book is better because of them. So I’d like to thank Sue Andrews, Peggy Hackett, Mike Barlow, Donna Cronin, Neil McCall and all the rest.

Also, a huge thanks to my very good friend Jeremy Elwood. Brother, you are a gift, and I am blessed to have you in my life.

.

DEAR LOVELY, GOOD-LOOKING READER…

If you liked Hell Raisers, please take a moment to leave a review on Amazon. This allows other readers to discover the novel (and helps the author as well).

FREE STUFF…

We’d like to offer you a free copy of Book One of Dick Wybrow’s humorous semi-apocalypse story The Swordsmen, which was NUMBER ONE on Amazon. You’ll also receive Dick’s newsletter. You’ll get free stuff and updates on new writing.

Click here

A preview of The InBetween (Hell inc Series Book 4)

There was a plan, but something went wrong.

Raz Frewer is dead. However, that's the only part of the plan that went right.

The memories of his past life have been wiped out. Who he was. The people he loved. However, one tiny scrap does remain: A compulsion to " do good.'

He has no idea why.

Raz is now a ghost named Painter Mann, trapped in an unnatural realm between living and dead called the InBetween. With this "do good" mantra Painter's only directive, he's now helping other ghosts move on to whatever's next.

That requires finding out the identity of the murder who killed the person he's trying to help. So he gets a job.

Painter Mann is the world's only dead private detective.

He's helping desperate souls, freeing them from the InBetween. He's doing good!

So why is he being hunted by a supernatural serial killer?

The InBetween

Chapter One

“You get all his dough?” said a large, hairy man with a nose busted more times than the tenth commandment.

“Sure, Hamish, I got what he had under the bed and in his sock, but—”

“You check everywhere?” The man grunted as he folded the dead accountant in half.

“Yeah, sure, I checked everywhere.” The big man’s partner was a young, scrawny kid with cold sores that had festered to such a degree that they no longer required the attention of a medical professional but rather a member of the clergy. “You worried we killed him, and he had the cash? He was screaming bloody murder, so he woulda told us if he had someth—”

“No, no,” Hamish said through clenched teeth. “But this is a Collect & Close, you idjit. On C&Cs, we get fifteen percent of whatever we recover following the close of the postantecedent dead guy’s account.”

The kid chewed his lip and instantly regretted it, as he’d bitten into a blister. It hurt like hell, and his eyes watered, but he knew not to say anything about it. Hamish had long lectured about the young man’s generation being “pussified.” There was no need to give the big bastard any more ammunition during those long drives like the body dump ahead.

“See, I don’t know that legal stuff like you do, Ham.”

“I coulda sit the bar.”

“I know it.”

“I chose not to. Lawyers are scum,” said the organized-crime heavy and freelance hit man.

“You got principles. I hear ya.”

“And I got fifteen percent insteada the usual ten. On account of this was the closure of this knucklehead’s account.”

“Right.”

“So while I grab a smoke, check his shorts and do a thorough cavity search to be sure he ain’t hidden away a roll of quarters or something.”

The skinny kid looked down at the man stuffed awkwardly into a suitcase, gingerly moistened two fingers with his blistered mouth, and, not for the first time on the job, wished he’d paid more attention in math class.

I watched as the man hovering over the methhead screamed yet again as the kid jammed two fingers up his dead body’s ass.

“Stop it, stop it!” the ghost shouted and had been shouting for the last ten minutes. Me, I waited. Before I said anything to a potential new client, it was best to sit tight until they were adequately distraught yet not full-on furious.

Bad things can happen when somebody’s out of control, even here in the InBetween.

The man, who I later learned was named Allister Hale, once again swung his ghostly fists at the skinny kid, crying tears that would never fall.

“Leave me alone, leave me,” he screamed, “alone!”

He then attempted to kick the head of the kid, who was now two knuckles deep in the dead man’s rectum. However, without a solid form—i.e., body—at his command, Allister swooshed right through and dropped flat on his back.

For a few seconds, the kid stopped twiddling his fingers, and his eyes cut left and right. A fleeting moment later, he was back at it, fingers now searching in the dead guy’s mouth.

Same fingers, by the way.

Not that it should matter, but respect for the dead and all, right?

Blechy.

Here lay Allister, now finally under the numbing spell of that familiar concoction of remorse, defeatism, and sadness. His ghostly image warbled with small, breathy sobs as he lay next to his own body, which had been busted up, cut up, smashed, and twisted to fit into a large rollaway suitcase.

This was my window of opportunity: right after the righteous indignation and self-pity screamfest but before the seething, angry plotting for revenge (which, you’re dead, total waste of time, in my humble opinion).

“My name is Painter Mann,” I said as I had many, many times before. “And I’m here to help you.”

Allister the ghost looked toward me then back at the skinny kid, who, somewhat over-eager I would say, was back in the dead guy’s colon. The spook simply waited, staring at me for a moment, then back to the junior crook.

“I’m not talking to him,” I said. “I’m talking to you.”

Allister stared at me like someone who’d just heard the punch line of a joke but somehow missed the setup.

I’m a kind person, but I suppose I was hurrying the guy along a bit, looking for an easy win after a recent case that hadn’t worked out. Not because I hadn’t done everything right to clear that woman. I had. But something went wrong. All the work for nothing. She was stuck in the InBetween despite my efforts.

Whatever. It happens.

“Listen, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this,” I said. “But you’re dead, man.”

The guy’s eyes went out of focus for a moment, and he said, “Yeah, got that. Kid went pretty deep, didn’t even take his rings off. And I never felt a thing.”

“Oh, okay, that makes sense now.”

Allister’s eyes cleared a little, and he looked at me squarely for the first time. “What? What makes sense?”

I pointed at the boy, now struggling to get three fingers inside the guy’s backside.

“I think he mighta lost a ring.”

Allister closed his eyes slowly and turned away. He then stood and began to shuffle to the other side of the room. I wanted to let the guy grieve but didn’t want to lose the client of an open-and-shut case.

A nice easy tick in my box.

Speaking to him in a soothing tone, I told him he wasn’t alone and that I was there to help him. I was a friend and all that blah blah blah stuff.

He introduced himself and asked me if I was an angel. Smiling, I said as I spread my arms wide, “You call me whatever you feel you need to, Allister.”

Note: I am no angel.

At least not yet.

Allister walked toward me, absentmindedly dragging his ghostly arm through an upturned wooden end table—the thick blood on two of its legs now dark and drying. He looked up at me with dead eyes.

That is, you know, empty. He was dead, so any expression was gonna be dead. He could be shiny, happy Allister, and he’d still have dead eyes.

Just trying to be clear there.

Then Allister brought his hand up and tapped at my chest, which sent small waves of nausea through me, and I grabbed his wrist to stop it. His eyes grew wide (but still dead, btw), and he began to go into a low-boil panic until I let go and set him straight.

“No touchee, Allister! That’s a part of Rule Number One!”

“Why?” he said and looked at his hand.

I reached up and flicked his ear, and since I was taking back the spoonful of energy he’d leached from me with the chest taps, he went a bit weak in the knees and then fell to the floor in a heap. A half minute later, he was back on his feet.

“Okay, got it,” he said, raised his hands, and took a big step backward. “Rule Number One firmly established, Mr. Mann.”

“Ugh, don’t call me that. Everyone calls me Painter. Mister Man sounds like a pejorative Kathy Bates used in that movie where she clubs James Caan’s ankles.”

“Misery?”

“No, no, but it does bother me a little,” I said and waited for the laugh. It didn’t come. Whatever. I’m about fifty-fifty on that joke. Good ice breaker when it works.

If I was being honest, I began to like Allister a little less. Time to get to business.

“Okay, partner, here’s how it works,” I said and walked toward the suitcase stuffed full of Allister. The big guy had returned, so now he and the shitfingers kid were struggling to get the zipper on the luggage closed.

“How what works, Painter?” Allister said, trying not to look at them. “I’m dead, right?”

“No, it—”

“I’m not dead?!”

“What? Yes, yes, you’re dead,” I said and brushed away his interruption. “But I can help you. I’m here to help you cross over to the Next.”

“Why?”

“Because this here is not the end. Around here, we call this ‘the InBetween.’ Like a train station between life and the afterlife. Or the salad that follows the appetizer, yet before the main meal.”

“Okay.”

“Or the yellow light between the green and the red.”

“I get it!”

I smiled. “I could go on and on. I got hundreds of them.”

Allister responded as about twenty percent of my new clientele do in the early stages. “But no, wait! I want to go back. I wasn’t done yet! I want—”

“Oh, hell no, you don’t want to go back!” I said and walked toward him, slowly pitching my head side to side. “You can’t, for one, but if you could, would you? Look at yourself!”

We both watched as the two killers caught the bridge of his dead nose in the zipper. With a meaty fist, the big guy smashed it in and, after a couple sharp tugs, finished zipping the suitcase closed.

“Dude, you don’t want to go back into that. You got at least eleven savagely broken bones, a smashed nose, and costume jewelry up your ass,” I said, letting my hand hover above his shoulder—this way he could feel it, but it didn’t send him reeling. “Time to move on.”

Despite not having a body anymore, Allister’s eyes began to water. He said, “How? How do I do that?”

I jumped in with my pitch. “Okay, here’s the deal. Because those guys killed you, the world’s ever so slightly out of balance. You died before you would have normally, naturally.”

“I don’t underst—”

“You don’t have to, but here’s the gist: if I can determine who killed you, as your personal private detective, then you, my client, can merrily zip on to the Next place. The afterlife.”

“But, but…” Allister said as the two men stood, the skinny one grabbing the handle of the suitcase. “But we know who did it! Those two goons did it,” he said, his voice beginning to quake.

“Yes, yes—”

The ghost standing next to me shouted, “They murdered me!”

“Ah, ha,” I said, putting up a finger. “You know that, and I know that. But does your family, huh? Do your coworkers? Does your, uh, wife?”

“I’m not married.”

“Girlf—”

“I don’t have…” Allister said and added, holding onto some strange notion of earthly pride, “I mean, I’m between relationships at the moment.”

Ah well, at least there’d be fewer people to miss him.

“Either way. You don’t want those thugs to get away with it, do you?” I said, giving him my power face and talking quickly. “Listen, you’ve got a limited window here. We expose who has murderously, uh, killed you, and then huzzah! the balance is back and you slip off to the next world.”

Allister considered this. Then: “What do you get out of it?”

“The knowledge of a job well done.”

“Job? What job?”

I stood back and spread my arms again. “I’m the world’s best private investigator.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“Okay, at the very least, I’m the world’s best dead private investigator. The InBetween can be a bit monotonous, but in my profession, death has some significant vocational advantages.”

“A dead P.I.”

“The best,” I said and smiled. Then I added in full disclosure, “And I suppose, if we wanted to put all the cards on the table, since I’m the only dead private investigator, I’m technically the worst, too.”

He nodded slowly.

“But since dying, I’ve made a point to try to put a positive spin on things.”

He didn’t look convinced. Feeling I was losing him, I decided it was time for Plan B.

“Come on, Allister, do what’s right for you here, man,” I said and slowly tapped my foot on the floor.

The new ghost said, “No. No, maybe I should hang around here for a while. Get my bearings before—”

At that moment, the air crackled, suddenly heavy with electricity and, passing through the far corner of the room, a massive beast of scales and claws, all rippling and sinewy muscle and bloodstained teeth. The creature was easily three times our combined size. Its fists were gore covered, while its thick, spiked tail dragged across the slate wood floor with a thup-thup-thup.

And as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.

“Whew,” I said, my breath ragged. “Allister, my friend, we got lucky.”

“Wha—what was—?”

“Hmm. I suppose since you’re new, he couldn’t smell you yet,” I said, then I clasped my hands together. “But in a few minutes, you’ll have been here long enough, and that will change.”

A lie, sure. But it was for his own good.

Slowly, Allister began to nod. He said, “Okay, okay. Wow, that… thing—I should go, then?”

“Good idea,” I said.

He was nodding furiously now. “So how do we even the, uh, balance?”

I slipped through a wall, briefly leaving him behind, then turned back and stuck my head through and said to him, “Do you have a LinkedIn page?”

Chapter Two

I strode into my home office with a purpose and found one of my “Temps,” eighty-three-year-old Harrison, swirling a viscous brown liquid around a plastic bowl with a spork.

“Harry!”

My octogenarian employee brightened and sat up in his bed, and a smile broke across his face.

“Paint! How ya doin’, son?”

“Good, man,” I said and poked my head into Harry’s bathroom, saw no one, and stepped back in. A few moments later, Allister shuffled into the room, facing the wrong direction.

I walked over to look at Harry’s dinner and bent down, giving it a theatrical sniff so he could hear me. I couldn’t actually smell it, but in truth, the way it looked, I was somewhat thankful at that point. The sense of smell isn’t lost on the dead; it just takes a much stronger odor to elicit it.

Tapping my lips once with a finger, I motioned for Allister to wait by a large, well-worn sofa chair.

“Whatcha eatin’, man? That don’t look too good.”

“It ain’t,” Harry said and tossed the plate onto an end table, spilling some of the liquid onto the phone. To me, it looked a bit like skin. “They tell me it’s meatloaf.”

I laughed. “Where’s the loaf?”

“Well, things ain’t as regular as they used to be, but if all works in my favor, that’ll happen in about two to three hours.”

Both Harry and I howled at his joke, but Allister simply stared. The formerly alive tax accountant and shitty gambler raised his hand. I told him to put it down.

Harry’s eyes darted around the room. “You got a case, Paint? Is he here?”

“Yeah, Harry, sorry. I shoulda warned you.”

“Nah, don’t bother me none.”

For a moment, I watched as Allister, with both feet planted on the ground, slid very slowly across the room. I put my hand up to my mouth and asked him, “Y’all right, man?”

“I can’t seem to… it’s just, I feel like I’m standing on an air hockey board. Not moving my feet but—”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” I said, walked over, and gently extended a hand to stop the guy from drifting. “I’d say you will get used to it, but you’re not gonna be here that long, Allister.” I pointed to the sofa chair. “Why don’t you take a seat?”

Harry sat up in his bed and leaned forward, clutching a thin blanket, straining to hear. A moment later, Allister fell through the chair.

“Ooof!”

Harry burst out laughing, looking up at the ceiling. “He fell for it, didn’t he, Paint?” The old man rolled into another fit of laughter.

“Yeah, it’s kinda mean, but,” I explained as I walked over and helped the dead man off the floor, “it makes Harry laugh, so…”

Allister stumbled to his feet. “What happened?”

“Yeah, solid isn’t so solid for you anymore. It’s mainly about perception and stuff like that,” I said. “I’ve discovered how some of it works. Other stuff the Professor has clued me in on. Floors, the ground, stairs—for the most part, you’re cool. After that, it gets dicey. Frankly, I don’t understand it.”

The tax accountant snapped his arm away from my grip. “How can you work in an environment you don’t understand?”

“Do you know how gravity works? Electromagnetic fields? Microwave ovens? Why Jimmy Fallon got The Tonight Show?”

Allister shrugged. “Right, okay. I got it.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re going home soon.”

“Home?” Allister’s eyebrows jumped.

Harry chimed in, “Not your old home, son, your new one.”

Allister noticed the old man sitting in the hospital bed wasn’t exactly looking at him. The ex-accountant asked my Temp, “Wait, are you dead?”

“Nearly.”

“Can you see me?”

“No, son, you’re dead. You ain’t got no body for me to see!”

“But you can hear me.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Because I’m nearly dead,” Harry said then scrunched his face up. “Thought we covered that part.”

Allister began to drift across the floor again, albeit more slowly this time. “Doesn’t that, I dunno, frighten you?”

“Dying? Aw, hell no,” Harry said. “I’m goddamn tired and sick of the food here. And the only reason any of the family show up is to jockey for position in my will.” The old man rubbed his hands together with a big, dentured grin. “Me? I’m ready for the next big adventure.”

I was going to miss Harry when that happened. And he was a good Temp, which is important, because the dead can’t do admin.

One of the toughest parts of being in the InBetween is you can’t take notes. That can be a challenge for someone in my profession. And since, here, I was the only one in my profession, that particular problem was potentially mine and mine alone.

If I’m ever working on a complicated case, trying to figure out who might have offed some nice, freaked-out lady, there’s nowhere I can write anything down.

We’ve all seen those movies where the police detectives crowd into a room, and they’ve got maps and pins pushed into photographs, and sometimes, for visual flair, they’ll use various-colored strings to indicate which clues might be connected.

Yeah, none of that for me. No maps, no pins, no photos, no strings. Well, mostly no strings. However, the rare ones around here don’t do me any favors, trust me.

So me, I gotta be like that old TV magician from the seventies, the Amazing Kreskin.

Kreskin, he was known as a mentalist that could “read” people’s minds or even implant ideas through the power of suggestion. If you’d heard of the guy, you may not know that he also had a fantastic memory.

Thankfully, he was able to teach me a few tricks when I first got started. He wasn’t dead. And he wasn’t near dead like Harry. But ol' Kreskin could somehow drift his consciousness between the two worlds.

Like I said, I don’t understand it, and to be honest, I don’t think A.K. (as he asked me to call him) really knew either. But I think that sort of thing made him a couple bucks over the years.

So if I come across a bunch of names or dates, in my mind, I’ll often attach images to each of them—sometimes a succession of images—to remember them. It’s helped in recent times, but I didn’t do this originally. That’s probably why I don’t remember much about when I was alive.

Thankfully, in Allister’s case, I had the name of his killer and now just needed Harry’s help. He was my latest in a long line of Temps. His wife Margaret was also in the home and another Temp of mine. She was probably going to go before Harry but was still up for the occasional recon mission.

Harry is basically bedridden, so he’s my computer guy.

“You got your laptop, old-timer?”

Moving his sheets around for a moment, he revealed a slick black Dell. He opened the lid and stiffened a little when the screen came alive. Smiling, I took a step back and let him change the webpage.

Still, I couldn’t help but give the guy a little grief. “I hope they pay that young lady well.”

“Oh, come on, leave it be! We got work to do, don—”

“She’s very flexible.”

The old man reddened. “It’s her website. She runs the damn thing. The other ones there are her, you know, servants.”

“Slaves, Harry,” I said, unable to stop smiling. “I believe that particular community uses the term slaves.”

Allister Hale sidled up to us. “What’s ‘pegging’?”

“None of this matters!” the old guy shouted, which prompted a shuffling from the hall. A moment later, a nurse with graying hair tucked up into a cap opened the door slowly and peeked in.

“You all right, sir?”

“Yes, Denise.” Harry gave her a kind wave and a fake smile. “I’m fine.”

“She’s a pretty one,” I said, knowing only Harry and Allister could hear me.

The old man said quietly, “Don’t start with me, boy.”

Nurse Denise frowned. “Are you sure you’re okay, Mr. Knudsen?”

I leaned toward Harry’s ear. “Maybe she’ll make you one of her servants, Harry.”

“WE’RE ALL good in here,” Harry shouted at first, then calmed and gave her a big toothy grin. “All is fine. Playing some online poker.”

The nurse twisted up her lips and said, “Is that what you all call it?” She closed the door.

Harry wiped his face and exhaled a deep breath. “Jesus, Paint, you can’t rile me up like that. I got a bum heart.” He clicked to the main Google page. “You’ll have to find some other stiff with hacker skills to be one of your Temps, you keep at it.”

“You ain’t a hacker, Harry,” I said. “I love ya, man. But black hat you ain’t. Hell of a research man, though.”

The old man looked in my general direction. His face, usually playful, went a bit slack. “I’m serious, though. You do gotta find some new recruits. There’s a reason why you call us Temps.”

“I’m lining up a couple,” I said, trying not to think too much about losing Harry. I really did like the guy. “I think Mr. Abrams is getting close to being ready to hear me.”

Harry scoffed. “That guy? Nah, I think he was a Nazi or something.”

“He’s Jewish, man.”

A shrug. “Self-loathing is a powerful thing.” Harry spun the screen toward us. “Okay, where we logging this guy?”

Allister Hale the tax accountant, in fact, did not have a LinkedIn page. Nor did he have much of a Facebook presence or anything else useful. We’d have to give him the Basic Package.

“What’s your name, son?” Harry asked as he navigated to the Wikipedia authors’ page.

“Why? Wait, what are you guys doing? I thought we were going to get those thugs busted. What’s about to happen?”

I turned to my client, not completely surprised by his sudden panic. Facing losing the only reality you’ve ever known can be terrifying. But I don’t have any idea what comes after the InBetween. Don’t know anything about the Next.

So it’s possible terror is entirely appropriate. Either way, I had a case to clear.

“Allister Hale, Minneapolis tax accountant—”

“I’m not from here. They’d sent me on a business trip,” he said and stared off. “A setup, obviously. I’m from Atlanta.”

“Allister Hale, Atlanta tax accountant—”

“Actually, I live in Kennesaw, Georgia. But I was born in Richmond.”

I nodded, pursing my lips. “Right. Alabama?”

“No.” Allister frowned. “Virginia.”

I heard Harry thump the delete button in a couple rapid taps, then type in the corresponding letters.

“Okay, so here’s how it works, or rather how we believe it works,” I said, looking into his twitchy, ghostly eyes. “If you die au natural like ol’ Harry is going to in the coming days—”

“Sooner the better,” the old guy said, typing.

“—despite the staffing issues it will cause me, it’s pretty much the Express Train to the afterworld for people like him. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.”

Al nodded, blinking quickly. “Okay, natural causes, you go straight to Heaven.”

“Yeah, wherever,” I said and shrugged. “But like I told you before, if your life energy is interrupted by murder, then the balance is off. And the one thing that’s clear is the universe doesn’t like unbalance.”

“By universe, you mean God.”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “I just know that the unbalance is ungood, and the system in place wants to right itself.”

Allister frowned. “Animals kill animals all the time. You’re saying that’s unnatural?”

“Don’t confuse murder and killing. Two entirely different things.”

Apparently, that clicked something in the accountant’s mind. “Okay. How do you, uh, re-balance?”

“The killer needs to be revealed.”

Allister frowned again. “You said that before, but do you know who killed me?”

“Al—”

“I mean, the bookie was a manager at this seedy bar in Marietta, but the big boss, I think he was a South American guy or something—”

“No, no,” I said and put a soft hand just above his shoulder. “Trigger man. The actual guy.”

“But, but, I don’t know that g—!”

“Wait, wait, calm down,” I said. “I do. It was the big guy with the boxer’s ears. His name was Hamish Blank, common spelling.”

Tap-tap-tappity-tap.

“So, okay, now we can get a message to the police, right? Tell someone who might be investigating—”

I shook my head. “Nope. Tried that in the past. Sent emails to the police, found out the names of the detectives on the case, had some of my Temps go speak with them. In the end, it was too much time and effort, and in most cases, we got nowhere with the cops.” And in some cases, it even got my assistants locked up.

“So how do you—?”

“We fire up your wiki.”

“What?”

“Create a Wikipedia page with your name and a few details and then identify your killer—in your case, Hamish Blank.” I looked over at Harry.

My old temp asked, “What kinda name is Hamish, for cryin’ out loud?”

“Family name, I bet. English. It’s like ham and an ‘ish.’”

“Gotcha.”

Tappity-tap.

Allister looked at me with a wrinkled brow. “That’s it?”

“Yes, for the most part, that’s it,” I said and gave him a big smile. “Once the world is made aware of the identity of your killer, you’re off to paradise, man!”

“How long does that ta—”

And, in a wink of light, Allister Hale was gone.

I said, “Not Long.”

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