Nighthawk bowed silently. Usher moved as quietly as a jungle cat on a deep pile carpet, and before Cameo had a chance to react, he grabbed her handbag away from her. She made a single convulsive motion toward snatching it back, but Usher just shook his head and held it out of her reach.
“Uh-uh,” he said. He looked inside, and frowned. He reached in and took out a battered old fedora that had definitely seen better days. “What’s this?” he asked, bemused. “I thought you were lugging a hand cannon around with you, and it’s just an old hat?”
“Don’t let her touch it,” Nighthawk said warningly.
“Whatever you say, boss,” Usher agreed.
Cameo glared at Nighthawk, who offered her the slightest of shrugs.
Nighthawk glanced at Contarini. The Cardinal stared with eyes wide open at nothing at all but the scene of loss and devastation playing in his head. Nighthawk could almost feel sorry for him, if he didn’t dislike the stiff-necked old bastard so much. Magda, taking her cue from her beloved leader, wore a lost-soul expression that also would have been touching if Nighthawk hadn’t known her better. She looked as if she wanted to comfort Contarini, but was stopped by the fact that human emotions were so foreign to her that she just didn’t know how to do it. Only Usher looked cool and composed, and openly wondering as he observed the by-play between Nighthawk and Cameo.
Nighthawk could do nothing now. He could only get the girl away from Contarini as quickly as possible. And then see what he could do about St. Dympna’s.
“Come with us,” he said quietly, and for once something went right. She nodded, and followed him without a word, Magda and Usher bracing her like prison guards on death row. Nighthawk looked back as they left the library to see Contarini still staring fix-eyed at nothing.
Christ’s supposed Shroud was tossed carelessly over Cole Porter’s unoccupied reading chair.
Las Vegas, Nevada: The Mirage
The blood had been the hardest thing. That, and the screaming. The Angel couldn’t decide which was worse. She also didn’t like the memory of the Witness’s lips grinding against hers, but she was a warrior for the Lord and she could deal with wounds and indignities. It was the suffering of the innocents that bothered her so.
She’d fought for The Hand before, but never in a battle this intense. It wasn’t so much her and Ray fighting the Allumbrados. The fighting had been fine. Thrilling, even. Except when it came to the Witness. The Angel knew that she hadn’t acquitted herself well with him. But she realized she shouldn’t dwell on that. Or on the blood. Or on the screaming, especially of the innocent tourists caught in the indiscriminate firing. Of Kitty O’Leary, screeching like a maniac behind her desk. Of Peregrine and the bloody sheet wrapped around her as they took her off on a gurney. She shouldn’t dwell on all that, she knew, because it was part of the Lord’s plan. But the blood—
“Hey.”
The Angel’s eyes focused and she realized that Ray was standing before her.
“You okay?”
His once immaculate suit was torn into rags. His body didn’t look much better. His face was battered and bloody. A vivid purple welt like the scar from a noose colored an arc around his neck. A flap of skin and meat hung down from his upper chest, exposing the muscle underneath, as well as a glimmer of bone. He was still bleeding from half a dozen body wounds and he held his side as if he had broken or at least rearranged ribs.
But he’d proved himself more competent than she thought he’d be. He’d handled himself quite well and his fighting technique had been, well, a revelation. He was faster than she was, if not stronger. And, she had to admit, much more deadly with a killer instinct that at times was frightening.
“Yes,” she finally lied. The next sentence came out unbidden from her mouth. “Tell me something.”
Ray brushed at his cheek, smearing a trail of clotting blood. “Sure.” He waited a moment, frowned, and then asked into the silence between them, “What is it?”
The Angel forced herself to focus. “Do you ever get used to the blood?”
“The blood?” She could see that he was puzzled. It was almost as if she’d asked him if he ever got used to the air he breathed, or the food he ate. “If blood bothers you, you’re in the wrong line of work, ba— uh, Angel. The people we deal with bleed all the time.” He grinned, and it was not comforting. “Better them than us, but we have to bleed too, sometimes. It’s the nature of the job.”
She nodded. She believed his words, but she wasn’t sure that she understood them. She’d have to pray over it and seek the Lord’s guidance.
“What do we do now?”
“Now?” The word came out of Ray as a long sigh. “Now we wait for the paper pushers to show up and start asking stupid questions.”
The Angel looked around the auditorium. It was quieter now than during the attack, but almost as chaotic, though the chaos had a controlled feel to it, as the men and women in EMT uniforms worked to alleviate the pain and suffering that surrounded them.
It wasn’t long before a florid-faced man with a dark rumpled suit and short rumpled haircut that screamed “COP” approached, looking as if he’d rather have a gun than a notebook in his hand as he faced them
“Now just who the Hell are you two?” he asked unpleasantly. “Witnesses said you two played a major part in the fight—”
“Somebody had to protect the citizens while you were out chugging donuts,” Ray said.
“Just a minute—”
“I’m going to reach into the back pocket of my pants,” Ray said, “and get my I.D.” He frowned. It was not a pleasant sight. “If the pocket’s still attached to my ass.” Fortunately it was, and the I.D. wallet was still in it. He took it out and showed it to the cop. “I’m Agent Billy Ray. Secret Service. This is Agent Angel.”
“You—” the Angel started to say, but he froze her with a look.
That doesn’t, she thought as the cop frowned at Ray’s I.D., happen very often.
The cop looked up. It was hard to say if the realization that the Feds were on the case made him more or less truculent. “Ray. Yeah, I guess I heard of you. Well,” he said gruffly, “you’ll have to come down to the station and make a statement.”
“Certainly, officer.” The Angel was amazed at the sudden courtesy in Ray’s manner and tone. “Do you mind if I stop bleeding first? Maybe change out of my rags? Get my broken ribs bound up?”
The cop’s florid features grew redder. “No,” he said shortly.
“Excellent, officer.” Ray took the Angel by her upper right arm and moved off. She went with him without a murmur. “We’ll stop by as soon as possible. Perhaps tomorrow morning. Whatever the doctor says.”
The cop opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it. He waved them on.
“You didn’t have to lie,” the Angel said when they were out of his hearing.
“Lie?” Ray asked innocently.
“I’m not a Secret Service agent.”
“Did I say you were a Secret Service agent?” Ray shook his head. “No.”
“You said—”
“I said ‘Agent Angel,’” Ray quoted himself. “And didn’t you tell me yourself that you’re an agent of the Lord?”
“I,” the Angel paused. “Maybe. I—I probably said ‘instrument of the Lord.’”
Ray shrugged. “Agent, instrument. Let’s not get technical. Now, be quiet for a moment.”
They’d reached the exit, which was blocked by uniformed cops. The Angel didn’t even listen to Ray’s explanation as he showed them his identification. Something about clearance levels and need-to-know and having to report back to the chief immediately as to what had happened. She was suddenly so tired that she really didn’t know how he’d managed it. The sleepless hours, the exhausting travel, the mentally and physically draining combat had finally caught up with her. Suddenly they were outside the auditorium.